


The Long Journey Home

by Littlefeather



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Escape, F/M, Forced Marriage, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Romance, Slow Burn, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 51,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt for the sansa_sandor LJ comm. When Ned is arrested and charged with treason, Joffrey breaks his betrothal to Sansa at that point and as punishment he marries her to the Hound. They continue to live in Kings Landing awkwardly getting to know each other until crisis forces them to make a difficult choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Called Before the King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angelwoody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelwoody/gifts).



> The comfort of my readers is of foremost importance to me. Despite the tag of forced marriage, please be assured that there is no non/con or dub/con in this story. I make it a practice to not include such elements in any of my stories, and if there are mentions of any potential triggers, I always tag it and put asterisks next to the paragraphs.
> 
> All of my fanfics featuring Jaime Lannister will stick to his CANON characterization so there is no need to worry when reading my stories. If ever I feature violence towards women (which is rare for me) I always place an asterisk beside the paragraph and a warning at the beginning of the story. If you ever feel anything needs tagging, please let me know. Your comfort comes FIRST.

Sansa hastily brushed out her hair and smoothed her bodice carefully while trying to ignore the fearsome man waiting on her.

Nervously she drew a deep breath and cast a sideways glance at Sandor Clegane, who leaned against the wall of her chambers, his cold gray eyes studying her every move.

“I am almost finished, my lord.”

The Hound snorted. Sansa watched his eyes roam her body before finally settling on her shaky hands awkwardly fumbling at the lacings of her gown.

”The longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for you,” he warned her, his rasping voice somewhat tempered.

Outside her chambers, Ser Boros and Ser Meryn stood wooden  their ugly faces blank and foreboding.

_What could possibly have happened that the king would send three members of the Kingsguard for me while he held court? And why would he send the Hound to watch me dress?_

Sansa longed to ask the scarred man but something in the way the Hound stared at her chased the words from her throat. Swallowing her apprehension, the young woman moved beside him.

“Please Ser, tell me what I have done.”

“I’m no Ser,” he sneered, tilting her chin up to him. “And this isn’t about _you_. It’s about your _honorable_ father, the great Lord of Winterfell, and Hand of the King Eddard Stark.” 

His words thundered in her ears, and Sansa felt as though the Hound drove his mailed fist into her stomach.

Mind racing, she thought back to the evening meal and recalled hearing the queen say that her father had made inquiries about Joffrey’s claim to the throne. Certainly, such questions were bound to displease the king but still, such a trifle did not warrant the show of force Joffrey sent to her quarters.

Nausea tore at her stomach, threatening to make her ill. Moving away from the Hound, Sansa held a small vial of smelling salts to her nose and sank back onto the bed.

“I had no part in whatever he did. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.”

“Save your chirping for the King,” the Hound pulled her to her feet, not ungently . “Do as you’re bid, child. Dress.”

“Y-yes, of course. Forgive me.” When she was ready, Sansa discreetly moved to the Hound’s left as he led her into toward the audience chamber.

Boros and Meryn fell in behind them. Flinching, she shivered and turned her face back toward the Hound.

“That one is nothing to fear, girl,” the huge man laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Paint stripes on a toad, he does not become a tiger.”

Ser Boros lifted his visor. “Ser, we must make haste—”

“Fuck your sers, Boros. You’re the knight, not me. I’m the king’s dog, remember? Walk in front where I can see you or lose your head, one. Makes me no difference but I’ll not have you frightening the king’s betrothed.”

Sansa saw the fear flicker through both members of the Kingsguard’s eyes, and without a word, the men moved in front of them.

Strong fingers gripped her arm tightly.

“They trained you well, little bird,” he rasped low into her ear. “Chirp your words well, for both our sakes.”

_For both our sakes? What does he mean by that?_

“Please, tell me what he wants,” Sansa abruptly stopped and clutched Sandor’s bicep tightly, her nails digging into his arm. “I cannot bear the suspense.”

“He wants to hear you recite all your pretty little words the way the septa taught you,” the Hound sighed heavily. “Joff wants you to fear him, as he fears the truth.”

She had only a moment to puzzle over this, for soon they arrived at the entranceway to the throne room.

At their approach, Ser Barristan Selmy opened the leaved doors. “Be brave, child, for your father,” he whispered, squeezing her arm.

Another shiver of dread went through her but Sansa remembered her courtesies and she bowed at the knight before Sandor led her toward the throne.

The eyes of the court and spectators weighed heavily on Sansa as she warily took her place, never taking her eyes off the king. Joffrey simpered at her as he waited for Ser Boros and Ser Meryn to take their positions behind them.

The Hound did not move from her side as the others, and resting his hands at his sides, he stood at attention, avoiding her questioning glance.

“Step forward,” Joffrey beckoned to her.

“Your Grace.” Sansa fell to her knees and then glanced over at the Hound. _Why is he still here? Shouldn’t he take his position next to the king?_

“Kneeling won’t save you now,” the king said. “ _Either_ of you.”

Beside her, Sandor Clegane’s face twitched into an expressionless mask. His hand flexed at the king’s words but otherwise the scarred man showed no emotion.

Joffrey's shrill voice cracked like a whip.

“Stand up, Sansa. You’re here to answer for your father’s treason.”

 The king’s wormy lips curled into a sneer as he watched her take her place.

She had never seen him as vicious as he looked then, not even when Robert ordered Lady executed. It became clear that her life depended upon the king accepting her words as true and Sansa put on her best face.

The faint whispers of the lords and ladies assembled faded into the background. _I am a Stark. I can be brave._

“Your Grace, whatever my father did, you know I had no part in it. You know that.”

“I do, my lady, I do. That is why you are still alive,” Joffrey licked his lips and leaned forward on the throne. “Tell me, my lady, what is a king to do when his betrothed’s own flesh and blood betrays him in open court?”

Stunned silence settled over the throne room. Schooling her expression, Sansa bowed her head.

“Forgive me, Your Grace; I know not of what you speak.”

“Your Father just stood in that very spot you occupy and ordered my mother and me taken into custody!” Joffrey screeched, the sound setting her teeth on edge. “He claimed that I am not the rightful heir of Robert Baratheon.”

She knew it would do her no good to refute the king’s words in open court.

“As it pleases the king, I ask for mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark who serves as Hand of the King.”

“Serves, you say? He serves no longer!”

“Treason is a noxious weed! It should be torn out, root-“ Grand Maester Pycelle began.

 Beside her, the Hound ground his teeth, his eyes gleaming with a frightening rage that fairly poured off his heavily muscled body.

Somehow Sansa understood she had nothing to fear from him.

Cersei noticed Sandor’s demeanor and exchanged a knowing glance with the king.

 “Let her speak.”

“If you insist, Mother,” Joffrey waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, I want to hear what she says, it might be good for a laugh.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Cersei tersely replied. “Lady Sansa, you will answer all enquires made by the court about this matter, is that understood?”

“Yes, my queen,” Sansa bowed.

Petyr Baelish stepped forward.

“Do you deny your Father’s crime?”

_My mother’s friend._

“No,” she faltered, glancing toward Sandor Clegane.

Flicking his eyes toward her, the man slightly inclined his head at her.

 _Chirp your words well for both our sakes,_ his words echoed in her ears _._ _The Hound is right. I am just a little chirping bird, repeating the words they taught me._

Steeling herself, Sansa held her head high.

“No, Lord Baelish, I know the king would never lie to me. And I know my father must be punished. To allow such a matter go unpunished would do harm to the king.”  The words bitterly stung her mouth. “All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did.”

“He said I wasn’t the king,” Joffrey leaned forward. “Why did he say that?”

“He must not have been himself,” she quietly offered, flashing a withering look at the old maester. “It is the only explanation I can offer. My father is a fierce warrior who fought alongside your own sire to take the Iron Throne. So I am certain he was badly wounded when taken into custody, is it not so?"

The queen's eyes glittered as she spoke but Sansa ignored her, keeping her eyes trained on the king.

"He was. What of it?" Joffrey cast a sideways glance at the old maester.

"I know that you must have provided care for him, if only out of your regard for me."

Joffrey shrugged impatiently. "And your point?"

The court snickered cruelly.

"I only meant that perhaps Maester Pycelle’s treatment weakened his mind.” Sansa wrung her hands. 

“Treason is treason!”

Sansa pressed onward, ignoring Pycelle’s bleating.

“My father loved Robert. You _all_ know he loved Robert as his king, and more importantly, as his friend.”

 _Remember, Sansa, a lady must always use her words with confidence. If you believe them, others will too._ Levelly she gazed into the eyes of Lord Varys, Lord Baelish and the queen, carefully stilling her expression into one of quiet confidence.

Murmurs of agreement went up around her. Heartened, Sansa continued.

“He never wanted to be Hand of the king. Your Grace, I am confident he would never have agreed to serve if not for this love,” she cast her eyes downward. “I ask mercy, not for myself but for my father, out of deference to the affection he and the king held for each other. Such regard is not found even among brothers. If you have any love in your heart for me still, please, do me this kindness, Your Grace.”

Simpering, Joffrey rolled his eyes. “Mercy? I must send a message to the realm that such behavior will not be tolerated.”

“Your counsel neither considers it wise nor in the best interest of the realm for you to continue your betrothal to Sansa Stark, a girl whose father, by his own mouth, is condemned of treason. I beg you, set her aside,” interjected Cersei. “The shame alone is punishment enough for her.”

Feigning ignorance, Joffrey gaped at his mother. “But I have taken a holy vow. A king must keep his word.”

It was all Sansa could do to refrain from laughing in his face. Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forward once more.

“Your Father, the gods bless his memory, made this pact before the Starks revealed their falseness. I have consulted with the High Septon and he assures me that Lord Eddard’s crime against the realm free you from any promise you have made to them in the sight of the gods.”

Folding her hands, Sansa bit the inside of her lip to remain silent.

“The gods are good,” Joffrey smirked approvingly. “I am free to follow my heart and hereby end my alliance with House Stark.”

A loud interjection rolled through the crowd.

“As it pleases you, Your Grace." Sansa curtseyed low.

Squinting, Joffrey raised his crossbow and aimed it squarely at her heart.

“Killing you would send the realm a message.”

 _It will all be over soon._ Whispering a prayer to the old gods, Sansa kept her eyes fixed on the ground until someone beside her caught her attention: it was the Hound moving closer to her, quiet as a cat, with his hand gripping the pommel of his greatsword.

The audience drew a collective gasp until the king’s laughter echoed through the chamber.

Cersei leaned in and whispered into Joffrey’s ear, her words pulling his face into a tight scowl.

“I considered taking your life in the place of your father but my mother insists on keeping you alive,” he lowered the weapon and jerked his finger at her. “Stand.”

No longer devoid of emotion, Sandor's face twitched sharply and he kept staring at the king.

Rising to her feet, Sansa glanced between them uncertainly.

“Mother, what should be done with Lady Stark?”

“I am certain your decision will be just and fair.” Cersei offered, the alarm in her voice mounting as she spoke.

“I think I’ll give her to the Hound,” Joffrey suddenly laughed and clapped his hands. A din of confusion went up from the audience. “Yes. I like this idea. Dog, make her your bitch, keep her as a bed warmer, sell her yourself-it makes me no matter.”

Panic stricken, Sansa’s eyes darted between the queen and Joffrey.

He glared at her, his beady eyes gleaming with malice as he added: “Or better yet, marry her. I'm sure she'd hate that. Sleeping in my dog's bed, being fucked like a bitch in heat, whelping his ugly pups.”

Joffrey's malicious laughter was the only sound in the room.

“Your Grace,” Maester Pycelle began reprovingly. "Lady Sansa is a highborn. It is hardly appropriate-"

“Silence, you old fool!” The king barked. “If I wanted to hear you speak I would have addressed you."

Straightening his doublet, Joffrey then turned his attention back to the Hound.

"What say you, dog? If you don't want her, I'll just let Meryn and Boros have her and then put her head on a spike."

The Hound stood clenching his jaw, his fist tightening around the hilt of his weapon while a small trickle of blood leached from the corner of the burned side of his mouth.

"I will take the Stark bitch, teach her what dogs do to wolves. She'll be mine to deal with from now on."

“A wedding it is!” Joffrey crowed, clapping his hands. “Meryn, make her ready.”


	2. The Betrothal

_Marry me to the Hound? Joffrey would not dare!_ _The highborn class would never stand for it, would they? Surely, no septon would perform such a wedding._  Sansa frantically looked to the queen _. This has to be his idea of a sick joke._

If it were, indeed, a joke, the queen certainly did not think it was funny. One look at Cersei’s stern face told Sansa that motherly annoyance was rapidly giving way to genuine alarm. Quietly she turned to the king.

“Your Grace, many lords will protest such a match. Perhaps Lady Sansa could be given to-“

“Silence, Mother,” Joffrey commanded, his tone making it clear that his threat was no mere jest. “I have made my decision. I will give Sansa to my dog in the godswood with only her king and her traitor father as witnesses. Meryn, make her ready, I say.”

Fear choked her throat as the imposing knight stepped forward and drew his sword. The Hound circled in front of Sansa, never taking his eyes off Joffrey.

“Leave her face," the king called out. “I like her pretty.”

Cersei closed her hand around his wrist and whispered into the king’s ear but he only jerked away from her.

Unsheathing his sword, Meryn moved raised his weapon to strike Sansa across the back of her thighs. Squeezing her eyes shut, the frightened young woman braced herself for the blow that never came.

A collective gasp came from the crowd, and when Sansa opened her eyes, she saw the Hound’s blade piercing Ser Meryn’s neck, oozing blood onto the tip where the point cut into his meaty jowl.

“The king gave her to _me_ ,” Sandor Clegane roared, twisting the sharp edge further into his flesh. “Sheath your fucking sword or I'll gut you balls to brains, toad.” Pure hatred gleamed in the Hound’s eyes as he warily moved Sansa behind him.

Panicked, Meryn cried out: “I was only following the king’s orders, Hound! Have mercy!”

“Fuck your mercy, coward,” he spat on the ground, a terrible smile twisting his scars. "I'd rather have your blood."

Boros inched forward until the Hound quickly drew his short sword and held it to his chest, causing the knight to think better of it and return to his place.

“If either of you so much as twitch, I’ll open you both up so wide the whole court will see what you ate for breakfast.”

The throne room fell silent, the audience captive to their collective fear of the Hound. With a smug sense of satisfaction, she saw the king’s eyes were wide with panic. _They all fear him,_ Sansa realized _. Even Joffrey._

“She’s _mine_ ; you heard the king.” Sandor glanced around the room, staring down each one of the assembled lords. “Listen, all of you: any man that touches my woman will beg the Stranger to take him before I’m through with him, believe that.”

Cersei glanced at Joffrey, who gaped at his bodyguard in disbelief.

“Your Grace, I would take my leave with her now,” the Hound rasped low, lowering his sword. “To make ready as _I_ see fit.”

“Very well; take her out of my sight,” Joffrey muttered, disappointed. ”We’ll convene for the wedding in an hour hence in the godswood. Get her traitor father ready, Boros; I want him to see his wolf bitch marry my dog.”

 _Gods be good, Joffrey is going through with it._ Terror clawed at her throat, rendering her speechless. Sansa looked around for someone, anyone, to intervene.

No one did.

“See that you handle her _properly_ , dog.” The king smirked, obviously enjoying her misery.

“I mean to,” Clegane coldly growled before he took Sansa briskly by the arm and unceremoniously dragged her through the crowd.

Sansa barely managed to hold her head high as he yanked her toward the doors.

The room began to spin. Sansa struggled to control her breathing. _I am a Stark; I can be brave. Yes, I can be brave._ Raising her chin, she mustered all her dignity as she allowed him to lead her away.

Lord Varys and Petyr Baelish stepped forward just as Ser Barristan opened the doors.

“My dear lady, I cannot tell you-”

Clegane took his arm and brushed gruffly past the men.

“See you at the wedding.” He snarled at them, his lip curling into a wicked grin.

Behind them, Sansa heard the tittering of the assembly, cruel and taunting.

Now alone with the scarred man, Sansa felt her resolve waver. With bitter tears blurring her vision, Sansa moved away from him and began shaking uncontrollably.

“You have nothing to fear with me, girl,” the Hound growled low into her ear. Slowly he drew out a handkerchief from under his sleeve and gently began dabbing her cheeks. “No one will hurt you again, or I’ll kill them.”

His tone was cold and dark, and Sansa had no doubt he meant every word.

The maid opened the door to Sansa’s chambers. “My lady, what happened?”

“Get out, now.” The Hound snarled, sending the frightened girl scurrying down the hall.

Once inside, the scarred man latched the lock and slowly turned to her, the burned side of his face twitching as he regarded her.

 _He told Joffrey he would make me ready, that he would handle me as he saw fit. What is he planning on doing to me?_ Being struck by the Hound would be infinitely worse than Ser Boros or Ser Meryn, of that much she was certain: the man stood six inches taller than the other knights and everyone in the castle feared him almost as much as they did his brother.

At the thought of Gregor, her stomach tightened into a knot. Everyone knew Ser Gregor’s favorite method of punishment for women but Sansa could not recall hearing anyone attribute such cruelty to the Hound. _Still, Gregor is his brother._

Brooding silently, the Hound clenched and unclenched his fists.

His hands appeared huge to her, and Sansa panicked when he moved closer. “Please, do not hurt me.” She begged, her eyes darting wildly around the room.

“Bloody hells, girl, I said you have nothing to fear with me. I may be ugly but I’m not going hurt you,” he sneered at her, shaking his head. “Settle down.”

Though she wanted to believe him, her experience at court taught the young woman that Joffrey’s men often said such things before they inflicted the worst punishments. 

Lord Baelish's words at the tourney echoed ominously in her ears: _"If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I'm afraid all of the knights in King's Landing would be not be able to save you."_

Despite the warm afternoon, a sudden chill pierced her body at the memory.  The gauzy curtains to the balcony billowed and danced in the cool sea breeze. Hugging her upper arms, Sansa’s eyes flickered over to the open doors. Cautiously she inched her way closer, all the while keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the scarred man.

“Please, Ser, I-“

Turning away, he rolled his eyes and sighed before raising his hands and smashing them into her breakfast table, shattering the wood.

“Fuck!” the Hound shouted while kicking the splintered wreck out of his way. His eyes darkened as he turned his gaze toward her.

With a small cry, Sansa sprinted toward the balcony. Iron arms gripped her waist, pulling her flush against the Hound’s heavily muscled chest.

“Get away from me!” She tried to wriggle free. “Let me go!”

The Hound’s wicked laughter boomed in her ear.

“So the little bird thinks she has wings, is that the way of it? Or do you mean to end up a cripple like your brother?”

“Turn me loose, I say.” She gasped, fear driving the air from her lungs.

“Easy, little bird, easy,” he rasped more softly. Slowly he took one hand away and held it in front of her, balling it into a fist. “See this?”

“Y-yes.” Sansa whimpered, still struggling to free herself.

“Look at it. _Look_ at it!”

Wincing, Sansa opened her eyes and saw the Hound’s knuckles were bloodied, swollen and turning green.

“I had to bust that table or the king would never believe I beat you.”

His breath fell hot against her neck, and somehow Sansa found it calming.

“I had to scare you so you wouldn’t chirp, otherwise the guards outside might report I didn’t follow through with Joff’s orders.”

Heaving a sigh of relief, Sansa’s body sagged against him.

“Gods be good, you succeeded, my lord.”

At her words, his chest relaxed against her while the rumbling of his deep laughter reverberated in his throat.

Giggling nervously, Sansa patted the large hand still at her waist and started to move away.

One arm snaked around her waist while another came up to her shoulder. His rough beard scratched her skin as the Hound brought his face to her cheek.

“Stay here; I’m not through yet.” After inhaling deeply, he nuzzled into her skin and then gently wrapped his hand around her throat, resting it there.

 _What is he doing? He said he wouldn’t hurt me._ Sansa’s body instinctively tensed up once more but still he did not pull away. It seemed as though the Hound surrounded her, inside and out.

Strong arms steadied her against him, while the metallic scent of armor, horses and wool and the clean masculine smell of his skin permeated her nostrils as she struggled to steady her breath..

“Pretty little thing,” he growled low in her ear. “I’ll bet you bruise like a ripe summer peach.”

Trembling, Sansa nodded. “Yes, I do. What are you doing?”

“I’ve got to leave marks on you or else the king will order you beaten again and not by me,” he rasped into her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you but I have to tighten my grip. You believe me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

The Hound laughed again, the sound as harsh as steel scraping against stone.

“Might be you have a wolf in you yet." He brought his lips to her ear. "A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he’ll look you straight in the face.” Cupping her under the jaw, the Hound raised her chin. “And that’s more than little birds can do, isn’t it?”

Sansa felt him slowly increase the pressure on her neck, his fingers digging painfully in the flesh just above her collarbone. Leaning her head into him, she drew a deep breath, desperately trying to calm herself. When his grip started to hurt in earnest, Sansa jerked away from him.

“Enough, I beg you.”

She looked up to see the sullen look in his eyes slightly soften as his gaze fell to the place on her neck where he held her.

Smirking, the Hound nodded. “That’ll do. Should be blooming by the time of our wedding.” He poured water over a towel, wrung it out, and handed it to her. “Press this on it.”

“Do you think the king will go through with it, truly?” Sansa asked quietly, taking the towel from him and placing it at her throat.

“Aye he will, the sadistic little inbred bastard.” The Hound’s eyes grew dark and brooding once more. “Not the pretty prince you wished for, eh, little bird?” He attempted a laugh, a short mirthless sound that saddened her further.

Turning her eyes to him, Sansa allowed herself to look at him, truly look at him. Beholding the huge, fearsome man with his scarred face clearly visible in the afternoon light, his swollen hands dripping blood, Sansa had to agree: he certainly was not the man she hoped to marry when she first came to King’s Landing, and for that she was grateful indeed.

 “Clegane, the king is calling for you.” Ser Boros’ muffled voice came through the door.

“Get the fuck away from that door or I’ll run you through,” the Hound jerked the door open with a snarl. “And don’t let me see lurking around my woman’s door again, understood?”

“Yes, Hound,” the man stumbled back, hurrying down the hall, "but you must make haste."

The Hound stepped back inside and closed the door. “Come here, little bird.”

Dutifully Sansa moved beside him. “Yes, my lord?”

“Neither of us agreed to this, so let’s just agree we’ll do whatever it takes to get through the day. Swear to me you won’t do anything stupid.” He gripped her jaw tightly. “No running to jump off balconies and such. Swear it.”

Sighing resignedly, Sansa nodded. “I will do nothing to endanger either of us, I promise.”

“Alright then.” He stared deep into her eyes, studying her warily.

Sansa could not bear the sight of him, he still frightened her so, and yet she had been raised in all the ways of courtesy. _A true lady would not notice his face_.  

His deep gray eyes softened somewhat, and she offered a small smile.

Laughing, he pinched her chin and moved away.

Shifting uncomfortably, Sansa shuffled away but held his gaze. “I am grateful, my lord, for your efforts.”

 “Are you now?” The man smirked and suddenly closed the distance between them once more.

“Yes, I do not know how I can repay you, other than try to be a good lady wife to you.”

 _“A good lady wife,”_ he repeated sarcastically with an empty laugh. “You know my name, girl?”

 _Is he mocking me?_ “Yes, of course I do.” She said softly.

“Then say it.” The Hound held her face in both his hands. Heat poured off his body, threatening to make Sansa dizzy.

“Sandor Clegane.” She answered, her voice sounding far breathier than she intended.

The Hound draw a deep breath, his eyes flickering down to her lips before he nodded curtly.

“That’s better. You can repay me by using it and not calling me by some buggering title your septa grilled into you.”

Suddenly he let go of her and abruptly left the room.

Flustered, Sansa sunk down onto her bed and rubbed her hands over her face.

The maids bustled into the room bearing a heavy gold and maroon brocade gown.

“Milady, the queen sent me to ready you. We must make haste. They are expecting you directly.”

Meekly Sansa submitted to her preparations, all the while indignantly running though her mind all the things she left unspoken in the throne room.

 _How dare_ _Joffrey! He cannot force me to marry the Hound, of all people! It is unthinkable! I am Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter!_

It did not take long before a sickening dread replaced her outrage. _I must go along with it. It will satisfy the king, at least temporarily and perhaps in so doing I will keep Father safe until Robb comes for us. Yes, I must go along with it peacefully, no matter how distasteful I find it. I am a Stark, I can be brave._


	3. The Bedding

Without a word, Boros dragged her by the arm toward the stump of a fallen weirwood tree where the septon, drunken and simpering, nervously waited.

Sandor was already there, wearing a clean doublet and leather pants holding a cloak bearing his sigil. Sansa watched him heave a deep sigh when he met her eyes, the fearsome man appearing as unnerved as she felt. After Cersei nudged him, her bridegroom held out his arm to her before resuming his stiff stance.

The septon deigned to smile down on the couple and made the sign of the Seven over them. Sandor laughed bitterly and spat on the ground, all the while contemptuously glaring at the holy man.

Shackled and filthy, Ned was led by the Kingsguard into the godswood. Her eyes filled with indignant tears at the sight of her beloved father manhandled like a common thief. When Ned caught sight of her, he forced a small smile and dipped his head to her. “It’ll be alright, Sansa,” he called out, earning a sharp blow from Ser Boros.

Crying out, Sansa started toward him but Joffrey jerked her other arm and grinned maliciously. “You wouldn’t want to comfort a traitor, would you, Sansa?”  Beside her, Sandor growled low in his throat as he tightened his grip on her arm.

Never before had the young woman felt such pure, unadulterated hatred as she did then, but Sansa resolutely decided she would deny Joffrey the pleasure of punishing her or her father further. “I am ready to wed at your leisure, my king,” she bowed with a small smile.

“Let’s get this over with.” Moving beside Ned, the king haughtily asked, “Do you like that? Your precious Sansa married to my dog?”

“As it pleases you, Your Grace,” Ned replied through gritted teeth, his eyes never leaving Sansa.  Her father’s gaze suddenly lowered to her neck, and his face reddened as he stared transfixed at the bruises Sandor left.

Shaking her head slightly, Sansa longed to tell him it was all a ruse and that Sandor did not hurt her. A large hand wrapped around her waist just then, and gently he pulled her closer to his side, away from Joffrey.

“Your daughter begged for mercy for you, you know. Said you were hurt, ‘ _it was the only explanation for your words’_ ,” the king cackled, mocking her voice.

Ned smiled sadly at Sansa. “Sansa is a loyal daughter and I love her deeply.”

“As I love you,” Sansa blurted out. Boros moved to give her a shove until Sandor stepped between them and shook his head.

“And now your beloved daughter belongs to the Hound,” the young king brought his face mere inches from Ned. “Septon, do you job.”

The holy man cleared his throat, and so began the wedded ceremony. The whole affair passed by in a blur; Sansa barely heard the droning of the septon, and only repeated the words expected of her at Cersei’s urging. Before long, the ceremony was over.

Sandor awkwardly draped his cloak over her shoulders and placed a slight kiss on her lips. Sansa closed her eyes, a shuddering sigh escaping her as she pulled away.   _They have made me a Clegane._

After the septon pronounced them Lord and Lady Clegane, the guards roughly hauled Ned back to the black cells, denying Sansa the chance to speak to her father.

Joffrey laughed openly at her and Sandor, who glared at the king. Listening to Joffrey crow to his mother was nearly unbearable in her distressed state. Sansa wrung her hands and bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood, willing herself no to cry in front of him. _I will not give him the satisfaction. No, I will act as though I am pleased just to spite him._

Forcing a smile, Sansa found her voice. “You do me a great honor with this marriage, Your Grace. I am a stupid girl, I know, but please humor me: how is it that I am now Lady Clegane? I understood that marriage alone was not enough to make it so. Is it not the custom for a wedded woman to retain her family name in the event she marries a man from a minor house?”

Sandor stiffened once more and pulled her closer still. “Hush, girl,” he muttered under his breath.

Joffrey laughed long and hard.  “You fool! I stripped you of your family name and inheritance,” the king shook his head in mock disbelief. “You really think being a _Stark_ holds any merit now that your father is a traitor? It is not worth a pile of horse dung in the Seven Kingdoms now. You are Lady Clegane, and you’ll be happy for it.” Leaning in close, the king pressed his lips to her ear. “With any luck, you’ll wind up like Gregor’s wives within a fortnight _, Lady Clegane_.”

Sansa’s façade fell, and not knowing what else to do, she turned away and hid her face in Sandor’s arm. Strong arms reached around her clumsily; it was her new husband offering a gentle squeeze. Stunned, her eyes shot up to his; Sandor's normally keen eyes softened as he returned her gaze for the briefest moment before he turned away, his arms quickly dropping back to his side.

Cersei took hold of Joffrey, digging her nails into the flesh of his arm. “My son, Sansa will learn her proper position soon enough. Let us go. We have wasted enough time with her. You have other, far more important matters to attend.”

Sandor kept his eyes firmly on the ground and gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching and twitching as he held her arm in a death grip. Glancing up at her lord husband, Sansa felt a twinge of pity for the Hound. Blood continued to seep from the corner of his mouth, and the scarred man was visibly uncomfortable, shifting on his feet, resolutely avoiding her gaze. _He cannot bear to look at me-he cannot bear my disappointment-what a pair we make,_ she swallowed hard, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her.

“No feast for my dog and his bitch! Straight to the bedding!” Joffrey reached for Sansa’s gown, and grasping it in his cruel hands, he yanked hard at the bodice.

Sandor lifted Sansa away from him, his eyes wild and frightening. “Enough.”

"No it isn't. Boros, make her naked."

“Clegane has the right of it, Joffrey, please; let us not detain them with a bedding ceremony. The daughter of a traitor does not deserve such a joyous wedding custom bestowed upon her,” Cersei tersely covered the hand that still held the remnants of Sansa’s bodice with her own. “This marriage is a punishment for her, you recall. Leave them to their own devices, I beg.”

Twisting his face into a scowl, Joffrey petulantly whined, “I am king, and I say we should all get a look at what Sansa has to offer my dog!”

Snarling out a growl, Sandor roughly jerked Sansa from his grasp. “I’ll take it from here, Your Grace. I’ll show her just what I’m made of, believe that,” the Hound laughed a terrible laugh, cruel and menacing, and the king seemed satisfied.

“Come Clegane, let us drink to your wedding while your bride is made ready,” Cersei gestured to him. Sandor glanced back at Sansa before following the king and queen regent back to the castle.

Once they returned to the Red Keep, Sansa was quickly ushered to their new quarters by her maids. It was much smaller than her former rooms, though Sansa imagined it an improvement from the soldier’s cells where Sandor formerly resided.

The women stripped her of the torn gown and ushered her into a steaming bath. After they scrubbed her skin pink, they tucked Sansa into bed as naked as her nameday while offering a few reassuring words.

“Won’t be so bad, milady. In the dark, he’ll be no different than the rest, no matter the scars. Just try to relax.”

The second maid handed her a glass of Dornish sour. “Drink deeply, milady. He’s known not to hurt the women who entertain him, if that’s any comfort to you.”

 _What do they mean by that?_ Her mind raced with questions. _He has women entertain him? Surely, they do not mean he visits Lord Baelish’s brothels. Gods be good, he is even worse than I feared._ A sickening dread pooled in her belly as they tucked her into the deep featherbed.

Hurriedly the two maids then left the room, latching the door behind them so she could not escape. Lying stiff as a board, Sansa closed her eyes. The utter alarm on the women’s faces haunted her as she anxiously waited for the Hound to return, impelling her to silently entreat the old gods.

As the faint rosy light of dusk filled their chambers, Sansa wondered that there still was no sign of the Hound. An hour after sunset, the maid returned and lit the large fireplace, after which she placed a tray of assorted cheeses, fruits, cured meat, bread and wine on the table. Sansa pretended to sleep, and the maid gently pulled another blanket over her before hastily retreating and locking the door once more.

 _Where could he be? Perhaps Sandor is still celebrating with the king._ Sansa’s fear slowly began to subside and the smell of food reminded her she hadn’t eaten all day. Wrapping herself in a robe, she sat down to eat. Though Sansa usually only partook of wine when social customs dictated, she decided her wedded night was as appropriate an occasion as any; after drinking down several goblets, she disrobed and resumed lying in bed, awaiting her husband.

The sound of glass shattering on the floor in the solar awakened her several hours later. _I must have dozed off_ , she thought, quickly wrapping the covers around her. The Hound’s lumbering gait resounded in her ears, sending a chill up her spine. _The Maiden save me, he is drunk._ Never was the Hound more frightening to her than when he was intoxicated, and all of the court knew it. Panicked, Sansa decided feigning sleep was the best way to avoid the inevitable duty expected of all new wives.

The door to the bedroom jerked open. Sansa squeezed her eyes closed, stifling the startled gasp on her lips. She heard him cursing as he fumbled around in the dark. The thick feather mattress sunk under his large frame, sending her rolling toward him. One by one, his boots fell to the floor with a loud thump followed by his clothes.

When finished, Sandor flopped down beside her. Unable to resist, Sansa slowly peeked through one eye to see her new husband sprawled out next to her with one arm draped over his eyes wearing only his smallclothes. She waited breathless for several minutes for him to reach for her but nothing happened. _He acts as though he forgot I was here._

It only took a split second for the Hound to realize he was not alone. Snarling, he cursed, grabbed for his weapon and lit the candle on the nightstand. “What the fuck? Who’s there? Announce yourself, damn you!“ The light of the candle flickered across her eyelids but Sansa stayed absolutely still, taking slow measured breaths in an attempt to appear asleep. Soon the angry string of curses dissolved into mirthless laughter.

“Well look here, my sweet little bird of a wife is nesting in my bunk. Sansa Clegane, bloody hells,” he spat out, settling back into the bed with a groan. The bed shifted under his weight as the Hound propped himself up on one elbow. “Pretty little bird,” he slurred. “So honey sweet. A proper lady you are.”

A wave of relief settled over her _. The Seven bless me, he thinks I am asleep. Perhaps he will leave me be._ Sansa felt the faint brush of his hand across her bruised neck and then slowly he trailed the tips of his calloused fingers down to the swell of her breasts. Her nipples hardened at his touch, and she heard him chuckle wickedly at the sight. When Sandor rested his hand on the sheet that covered her nakedness, Sansa drew in a sharp breath.

At her movement, the Hound quickly jerked his hand away as though burned by some invisible fire. “You don’t deserve the likes of me, girl, believe that,” he sighed bitterly. “Probably dreaming of some pretty knight rescuing you from the scarred Hound right now. Would you like that, little bird? To have a true knight save you from the ugly dog?”

The only sound in the room was his labored breath until suddenly Sandor did something completely unexpected: the fearsome man curled his body around hers, gently placed his hand on her stomach and rested his head on her shoulder with a deep sigh. “Might be the only time you allow me this,” he chuckled again, his voice angry and resigned. “Sweet little bird.”

 _What does he mean by that? Has he wanted to hold me before now? Why would he want to do that?_ It was unthinkable that the brutal man was even capable of such an innocent gesture, and yet Sansa could not deny that Sandor had always treated her gently, even when he bruised her neck. Bewildered, the young woman maintained her ruse with difficulty as she pondered the meaning behind his slurred words.

His hot breath burned against her cheek as he deeply inhaled once more and caressed the curve of her cheek. “Such a pretty little bird,” he rasped harshly, the sound of steel scraping against stone. “Fuck Joffrey. Fuck the queen. I swear on every one of your buggering gods that you will not end up like Gregor’s wives, believe that. You’re mine and I’ll die before I allow it.” Sandor’s angry voice took on a determined timbre. “I may not be much of husband for you, by the Seven, but I’ll keep you safe.”

His promise went straight to Sansa’s heart. Some instinct moved Sansa to bring her arms slowly around him, resting her hands on his shoulders in a gentle embrace.

“Little bird,” he sighed again, pulling her closer and gently resting his head on her shoulder. Sansa did not resist; instead, she found herself longing to run her hands over his hair and so she did. His breathing soon became heavy, and the Hound fell fast asleep in her arms.


	4. The Morning After

In the morning, Sansa awakened to find she was alone once more. The coverlets had been tucked securely around her body, so much so that she could hardly move. _Sandor must have done it to preserve my modesty,_ she smiled to herself, though she had no idea why a man who prided himself on not being a knight would do such a chivalrous thing.   _I wonder how much of my body he actually saw._

The thought of the Hound ogling her nude body while she slept brought a deep blush to her cheeks. _He isn’t the Hound to me anymore; no, thanks to Joffrey and that drunken septon, he is my lord husband_. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she let out a nervous sigh. _Where is he?_ Rubbing her eyes, Sansa sat up and looked around the room. Her husband was nowhere in sight. Glancing over to the floor, she noticed the Hound’s clothes and boots were gone.

Resting back on the pillows, the events of the previous night came back to her mind. Sansa could hardly believe that one of the deadliest men in all of Westeros had curled up beside her like a child, wanting nothing more than to be close to her. _How will he act when I see him? Will things be different between us now? Will he expect more than an embrace this evening?_

The maid knocked at the door, startling Sansa from her thoughts. “My lady, is there anything you need?”

“Yes, Shae, do come in.”

“Did you have a pleasant evening?” Shae raised her eyebrow suggestively at Sansa, a small knowing smile playing across her lips.

“Yes, most pleasant,” Sansa blushed deeply, remembering the gentle way he held her.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she answered honestly. “He did not.”

“Good,” Shae let out a relieved sigh, her determined tone sparking Sansa’s curiosity.

“What you have done if I said he did?”

“I would make him stop,” Shae patted her legs. “Did he seem pleased with you?”

“Yes,” she whispered shyly, remembering his compliments.

Shae smirked knowingly.  “I have no doubt of that. Come milady, I have your bath drawn and your gown set out for the day.”

Sansa twisted the blanket in her hands, wondering what she meant. “Has it been let out again, as I asked?”

“Yes, but Sansa, you really need new gowns. Tell the Hound to buy you some, he has plenty of coin.”

This was brand new information to Sansa. “He does?”

Shae nodded. “He is quite well off, I understand.”

“How do you know this?” Sansa suspected Shae met Tyrion in a brothel before becoming her maid and she knew that he kept her in his rooms. A queasy feeling settled in her stomach. Had Shae entertained him in the past?

“It’s not important,” Shrugging, Shae started to turn away but Sansa suddenly reached out and held her arm firmly.

“Please, tell me.”

“You know not every girl grows up a highborn, my lady,” Shae gently began.

Sansa nodded, holding her breath.

“He has patronized a few of my friends, that’s how I know. I doubt he will continue to do so now that he has you.”

“Oh,” Sansa absently replied, letting out the breath she did not realize she was holding.  

Shae busied herself unbraiding Sansa’s hair. “Are you feeling jealous for your lord husband already?”

“Don’t be silly,” Sansa jerked away from her with a frown.

Shae giggled as Sansa felt a telltale heat flooded her cheeks; sometimes she wished she was not quite so fair, and that her complexion did not betray her every emotion.

“He’s got quite a purse from his tourney and gambling winnings over the years as well," Shae offered, deftly changing the subject "Tyrion told me he earned one of the largest purses in the history of King’s Landing at your father’s tourney.”

 _Why would Lord Tyrion tell her that?_ Sansa had assumed Sandor was poor, and she knew Sandor intensely disliked the Imp. The idea that the Hound had money of his own surprised her almost as much as his promise to keep her safe.

“You needn’t look so scandalized, Sansa,” Shae laughed while helping her into the tub. “Men often talk when they are…happy. You’ll see soon enough.”

Sansa felt there were so many things she needed to learn about her husband, they had not been wed a full day and already she discovered many qualities in the man that she never expected to find in the rough, brutal Hound.  It was her duty, after all, to learn her husband and make herself agreeable, though Sansa felt ill-equipped for the task.

Shae stood staring at her, waiting for a response, and so Sansa replied, “Well, perhaps I will mention I need a new gown once we get to know each other a bit better.”

"You best not wait for that, milady," Shae snorted with a shake of her head. “Some men will never learn a woman beyond what he sees on their wedded night.”

What did she mean? Curious, Sansa leaned in close and whispered, “Do you think Sandor Clegane is such a man?”

 “I do not know,” Shae shrugged. “Men also have a way of surprising women from time to time.”

 _She means Tyrion._ Suddenly uncomfortable, Sansa changed the subject. “Would you please bring up a breakfast tray for the two of us, Shae?”

“Certainly, my lady. What would you like to eat?”

Sansa thought for a moment. She had no idea what her new husband ate to break his fast; one thing of which she was certain, however, is that the Hound required a lot of food. Sansa gleaned that much about him from the way he ate during the feasts at court.

“Just bring up plenty of everything, Shae, and set the table for us. Also, would you send a message to Sandor that I will be expecting him in an hour hence?”

“Of course.”

Sansa hurriedly bathed, brushed her hair to a fine gleam, and then dressed in the gown. Despite the alterations, the material pulled tightly across her chest and constricted her breathing. Still, she told herself she would ask nothing of him until she was certain it would not anger him.

Carefully she laid out the meal on the table, setting the larger portion of food in the place she set for him. An hour passed, then another half of another before she heard Sandor’s heavy footfall outside the door.

Sansa darted into her seat and carefully smoothed down her skirts. _Will he remember the promises he made last night? Did he discover I was awake when I put my arms around him? I hope it did not anger him. Will he behave differently?_

Scowling, the Hound entered the room, carefully avoiding her gaze as he did so. “What’s all this?” He gestured toward the table and surveyed the meal warily.

Sansa studied his face to gauge his mood, but as usual, his expression told nothing, and the young woman began to wonder if breaking their fast together had been a good idea.

“There is no need to be so cautious, it is only breakfast,” Sansa giggled softly. When he remained stiffly standing beside her, she added, “It is no trap, my lord, I assure you. Please, sit and take your ease.”

“Why?” Sandor frowned, his face twitching sharply. “Why would you want to eat with the likes of me? I’m sure one look at this will spoil your appetite,” he spat out, pointing to the scarred side of his face.

“I beg your pardon?” Sansa offered him a roll, the young woman trying in vain to swallow her mounting fear. _A lady always remembers her courtesies,_ she repeated to herself.

“Quit your chirping,” Sandor clenched his jaw and snatched the roll from her hand. “Answer me. Why did you do all of this?”

“I-I was hoping we would share a meal together,” Sansa stammered, anxiously smoothing her skirts. “Perhaps we could get to know one another for a bit before you return to your duties. I-I did not know what you like to eat and so I ordered a bit of everything.”

Frowning, he heaved a sigh and slumped into his chair. “As you say, little bird.”

“Are you feeling quite well this morning?” Sansa asked politely, taking in his pale pallor. She handed him a cup of tea, and abruptly he took it from her.

The Hound barked out a laugh. “Always so courteous. Do you mean am I still wine sick?”

“Well, yes,” she looked down and nibbled at her roll.

 “Aye that I am,” he allowed. “The roll and tea will help, though.”

Sansa smiled brightly at him, hoping his words would be the start of a real conversation. “I am glad of it.”

Instead, Sandor silently sat eating his rolls, all the while watching her closely.

After a long pause, she tried again. “Will you guard the king all day?”

He nodded, his eyes growing sullen and angry. “Yes, until Meryn takes over at supper.”

“Will you-will you join me for supper?”

Sandor studied her for a moment. “Aye, if it pleases you.”

 His voice didn’t sound quite so angry to her. _That is better; perhaps my courtesy will work on him after all._

“That pleases me greatly,” Sansa smiled again, encouraged.

“I’m sure I’m just the dinner companion you’ve always wanted,” he sneered, his eyes glittering angrily.

Her face fell but Sansa remained silent, struggling to hide her disappointment.

“So, you’re no longer afraid of me, is that the way of it?” Sandor averted his eyes, fingering the handle of his short sword.

Sansa shifted in her seat as he slowly raised his eyes and looked her straight in the face once more. Sadly, she looked him levelly in the eyes, remembering how he wanted her to look him in the face. “Truth be told, I am still a bit afraid. Please, forgive my rudeness,” she paused. “Although my fear is-it is not the way you think.”

“It’s not rude to tell the truth, little bird.” He laughed harshly, leaning over to her and gripping her chin. “So, how is it, then? Tell me.”

 _Do I dare tell him?_ Sansa puzzled over her words until she saw his eyes begin to simmer once again. “It-it is your eyes that frighten me.” _Not your scars, s_ he added silently, staring into his face

The burned side of his face twitched sharply; and after he swallowed hard, he let go of her face. “And what would you have me do about it, _wife_?” The Hound spat out the last word like a curse word. “Tell me how you expect me to suit your delicate nature.”

“Please do not speak the word wife to me in such a manner. As you said yesterday, neither of had any say in our current situation, and the least we can do is try to make the best of it.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he rasped low.

“I would have you remain exactly as you are,” Sansa offered after a moment. “Only less angry with me.” She leaned forward and rested her hand on his forearm.

He flinched at her touch but did not move away.

“I heard you last night. I heard your promises, and I am most grateful to you,” she whispered.  “I want...if you will let me, I want to try to be a good wife to you, despite everything.”

Sandor jumped up with a start and slammed his fist against the table. “You don’t know what you’re saying, damn it Sansa,” he hissed in her face. “I’m no fool; you don’t want the likes of me, so quit your damned chirping.” With that, he stormed out the door.

 _How did everything go so wrong?_ Sansa tearfully wondered.  I _remembered my courtesies, I tried to reassure him that I will go along with this marriage and he insults me!_ Whirling around, she kicked the footstool in frustration and burst into tears.

Shae knocked on the door. “Is everything alright, Lady Sansa?”

“Yes, no...please, come in, Shae,” she tearfully called out, quickly wiping her face with a handkerchief.

“I saw Lord Clegane leave,” Shae rested her hands on Sansa’s shoulders. “I trust your breakfast did not turn out as you hoped.”

“No, and he is no lord, the insufferable man!” Sansa petulantly cried, kicking the footstool once more for good measure.

“Indeed he is a lord, my lady. Lord Tyrion told me the king announced it this morning in court.”

Puzzled, Sansa sank into the chair. When the septon pronounced them Lord and Lady Clegane, she thought it was another of Joffrey’s cruel jests. “Why would he bestow a title on him? I suppose it is a reward for making me miserable.”

“No, I am afraid it is to prevent your brother from having the marriage annulled. It also forces him to renounce your claim to Winterfell or else risk having it fall into the hands of the realm.”

 _Of course, Joffrey would think of that_ , Sansa heaved a heavy sigh. Robb was their father’s son, and Sansa knew he would relinquish her inheritance and leave her married to Sandor Clegane rather than risk Winterfell ever falling into the hands of the king.  Now, no matter what Robb did, she would be stuck married to the Hound, a man who seemed determined to stay perpetually furious with her. She wondered how long it would take for word of her marriage to reach Riverrun and Winterfell.

 _This is what Joffrey meant when he said he stripped me of my family name and inheritance_. Sansa had underestimated him, and hatred washed over the young woman at the realization. What was even worse, she lost everything because of her sham of a marriage to Sandor, and he acted as though he didn’t even care.

“Do you know what he did? I lowered myself and agreed to go along with this marriage to keep the peace and the Hound threw it in my face!”

“Did you expect him not to?” Shae asked carefully.

“Well, I-“ Sansa was not sure what she expected, now that she thought of it.

“The boy he has protected from infancy has just used him ill; he married you to the Hound as a punishment, to degrade you. The whole court is laughing at you because of _him_ , and his scarred appearance. He knows you are bound to hate him, knowing what the marriage has cost you. How do you suppose all of that makes him feel?”

“I had not looked at it in that manner,” Sansa halting answered, suddenly ashamed of herself. “It would hurt anyone terribly, even a man as hard and unyielding as the Hound.”

“Men have a ridiculous amount of pride, and he is a man after all, in spite of calling himself a dog. Do not take his growling too personally,” Shae advised, slowly running the brush through her hair. “He was most upset by the appointment as well, Tyrion said, and he stormed out of the throne room shouting and cursing at the top of his voice.”

Sansa nodded. “He hates knights and titles, and spits on their vows. The king did not punish him for his ungrateful behavior?”

“Tyrion said the king was furious but the queen calmed him down and afterward he thought better of sending men after the Hound.”

“He doesn’t want to risk anymore men of the Kingsguard, no doubt. Did Tyrion know where Sandor went from there?”

“No,” Shae sighed. “He probably was in some dive, in the middle of drowning his indignation in Dornish sour when he received your note.”

“No wonder he was in no mood to hear me.” Turning to her handmaiden, she implored, “Please, tell me how to get through to him.”

“It will take patience, but I think if anyone is able to reach the Hound, it is you.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa’s cheeks flushed hot, and briefly, she wondered if others might know the regard he spoke of the night before.

Shae laughed and shook her head. “I mean to say that he treats you better than anyone. That must account for something.”

That was true; for all his shouting and growling, Sandor treated her gently, almost reverently. Her mind went back to his childlike embrace the night before; she marveled how contented the fearsome man seemed merely touching her face and holding her in his arms.

“Perhaps,” Sansa finally allowed.

After Shae left, Sansa made up her mind that she would find a way to reach him. That evening, she prepared an elaborate table for the evening meal but Sandor did not come. Once again, she lay in bed nude, waiting for him to return. Finally, after the second quarter he staggered in, undressed, and held her in his arms, just as he did the night before.

Silently Sansa submitted to his attentions while her mind replayed Shae's words. _Of course, he is miserable just as I am. It is unthinkable that Joffrey and the court mistreat him so. He served Robert so loyally, and he all but raised Joffrey._   Even though she did not really want him as a husband, she would never have used him so ill. After a while, she encircled his shoulders with her arms and unable to contain herself, Sansa wept silently for him and for herself.


	5. Winter is Coming with a Vengeance

For three turns of the moon, they neither spoke of their nightly embraces nor refrained from them. Sansa supposed it was because each of them feared doing so would break the freedom the darkness brought into their wedded life, freedom to enjoy gentle touches, to learn each other both with and without words.

Every day and night the newly married  couple fell into the same routine: Sandor disappeared at dawn and then reappeared to awkwardly break his fast with her, not returning until late in the evening, drunk and disheveled. Anxiously he would sit on his side of the bed, waiting. After he was certain she was asleep, Sandor took Sansa in his arms, spoke to her the things he felt but would not put to words, and then fell into a fitful sleep.

For her part, Sansa always pretended to be asleep until his breathing slowed, and then she would wrap him in a tender embrace as she wept and prayed for them to find a way to endure. One night when she thought he was asleep, Sansa spoke her words aloud. "He is no knight, but he saved me just the same. Mother, save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him."

Suddenly she felt him stiffen in her arms, and frightened, Sansa held her breath. Sandor heaved a heavy sigh, and not long after, the young woman felt the front of her sheer nightgown wet with his tears. Not knowing what else to do, she decided to make him believe she thought him still asleep and speak her feelings aloud, just as he did.

"I am so very sorry the king has used you so ill, Sandor," Sansa stroked his hair. "You have cared for him better than his own father ever did and he yet treats you terribly-the wicked, ungrateful boy. He believes he is punishing me but nothing could be further from the truth.”

He squeezed her closer but remained silent, and so she went on. “I was afraid of you at first; it is true, but not anymore, not really. It is the anger in your eyes that frightens me, not your scars. I would be so very good to you, if only you would let me. I do not know whether we will ever be husband and wife for true, but one day I hope you will find it in your heart to trust me."

She heard a choked sob rasp from the Hound's throat, and his grip tightened around her as he buried his face in her gown. Still, he offered no reply, and Sansa fell silent and continued caressing his head. The next morning, she awakened to find Sandor still lying beside her.

"I ordered our meal. I’ll take you to see your father after,” he leaned closer. “Would you like that, little bird?”

"Oh, yes!" Sansa cried and impulsively threw her arms around him. After she realized what she had done, Sansa pulled sheepishly away, a deep blush flooding her cheeks. “Oh, forgive me. I-”

Chuckling, he cleared his throat and moved away from her. "Best get ready, then. Not a word of this to anyone, understand?"

"Yes, Sandor, not a word, I promise."

Sandor started to get out of bed, but Sansa held onto his arm firmly, reddening as he turned to her with a look of surprise. "Thank you, husband."

Grunting, he stared at her a moment, allowing his eyes to travel over her body while his face twitched into an unreadable expression.  Suddenly it dawned on her that her sleeping gown was rendered transparent in the early morning light.

“Get dressed, little bird,” he rasped hoarsely and threw back the covers.

Not wanting to disturb the newfound, fragile peace between them, Sansa decided not to call the maid. After struggling to put on her simplest gown, the young woman left her hair hanging to her waist in the northern style, hoping it would please her father to see her thus. Glancing one last time in the mirror, Sansa pinched her cheeks several times before she entered the solar.

Sandor passed the time polishing his swords in the bay window seat. From the doorway, she watched him look up at her and then move to the breakfast table. Uneasily he ran his hands down the front of his thighs while his rough palms clung to the leather breeches. He barely glanced at her before staring down at the plate before him.

 _His hands are sweating-he is as nervous with me as I am with him_. Nonchalantly she sat down across from him and smiled tentatively. “Sandor,” she smiled, timidly using his given name for the first time. “Thank you for ordering our meal. Everything looks delicious.”

Sandor rose to his full height, and even without his light armor, Sansa was taken aback by how large and muscular he was built. “I had them bring up a bit of everything and a lemoncake, little bird; I know it’s not breakfast food but it’s the only thing I was sure you’d eat.”

Gruffly he pushed the confection closer to her with a grunt. The tension between them was nearly unbearable but she was determined not to retreat into the awkward silence that plagued their previous encounters. Undeterred, Sansa pressed forward. “Yes, they are my favorite. It is so good of you to remember.”

Sandor’s lips pulled tight, and abruptly he got up and walked over to the window, a deep frown twisting his scarred side of his face in a most in an alarming manner.

  _A true lady would not notice his face,_ Sansa repeated to herself. “Is the meal not to your liking?”

“About your father, Sansa…”

His anxious manner sent butterflies to her stomach. Sansa longed to touch his arm, to take some of his ferocity for her own, but instead she willed her hand to remain at her side. It would not do to express familiarity with him; she had no idea how he would react, or whether he would welcome the gesture. “Yes?” She stood and moved beside him. “What is it? Please, I can bear it.”

“He’s suffering down there, in the cells,” he sniffed. “Joff’s not going to keep him alive for long, I’ll wager.”

A sharp stab pierced her tummy, and Sansa felt the truth of his words in her heart, though her mind did not want to accept it. “How do you know this?”

“War is on the wind, Sansa, everyone can smell it,” Sandor gritted his teeth. “Stannis isn’t taking Joffrey’s claim lying down, and the little shit is eager to prove he should be feared.” Sighing, he turned to face her. “When I take you to him, we can’t stay long. Five minutes, mayhaps. The king and queen mustn’t hear of it, understand?” He tipped her face up to him, his expression hard and adamant.

Swallowing her fear, Sansa nodded. “Yes, of course. I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

“See that you don’t,” he growled low. “Or it will mean both our heads.” Gritting his teeth, he glared at her once more, seeming to struggle inwardly before he spat out, “Why did you call me husband earlier? Is that your idea of a bloody jape?”

“N-no,” Sansa stammered. “I meant to acknowledge that you are, indeed, my husband. I have not referred to you as such since we wed, and I mean to change that, starting today.”

He smirked, his keen gray eyes boring into her. “Always the proper lady, chirping out the words your septa taught you.”

“My septa has nothing to do with it. We must try to learn how to live together, Sandor, and it will not do for the Lannisters or the king to suspect we are not man and wife for true,” Sansa wrung her hands, though she angrily raised her voice at his mockery. “I fear the obvious distance in our interactions will alert them to our true situation. Joffrey-well, he might ask for a wedded linen.”

Sandor’s eyes burned with rage as he brought his face closer to her own. It was all she could do not to turn away from him but Sansa determinedly held his gaze. After a moment, he nodded sullenly and sat down at the table once more. “Eat up,” he barked, and sitting down once more, Sandor began bolting his food. “We must make haste.”

* * *

Hurrying behind him, Sansa struggled to keep up with the Hound’s long stride as he stalked the corridors of the Red Keep, a dangerous air emanating from his every move. Sansa observed with a perverse satisfaction that everyone-lords and ladies, sellswords and members of the Kingsguard alike-all scrambled to get out of his way.

When they reached the alcove to the stairway, Bronn met them while arm in arm with a busty young woman that Sansa had never seen before. Instinctively she clutched her bundle under her cloak and moved closer to Sandor.

The man’s eyes briefly glimpsed over Sansa’s snug gown before Sandor lunged forward and gripped the front of his jerkin. “Get the fuck out of our way. You’re blocking the whole bloody staircase, you and your whore.”

“No need to be surly, Hound, we’re on our way,” Bronn grinned at him wickedly and then jauntily bowed to Sansa. “Out for a stroll with the missus, I see.” Unable to help herself, she nodded and smiled softly at the irreverent sellsword.

“Bloody obvious, that. Just take Baelish's wench and be gone, will you?” Sandor rasped irritably, resting his hand on the small of Sansa’s back. “Don’t make me say it again.” His touch sent a shock of surprise through her, but Sansa’s forced her face into a look of pleasantly passivity as they walked onward.

“Alright, easy now, I don't want any trouble," Bronn smirked and tipped his head at the woman. "I've got all I can handle with this one. You two have fun now, you hear?"

"Fuck off," Sandor snarled. Once Bronn and the woman disappeared from view, he held his arm out to her and growled, “Come here, will you?”

Swiftly Sansa rested her hand on the crook of his arm and Sandor possessively covered her hand with his own. Silently they resumed their walk toward the outer courtyard before Sandor tugged her toward the narrow dank path leading to the Black Cells.

“Wait here,” he brought his mouth against her ear. “I’ll get rid of the guards. Keep out of sight.”

“Yes, Sandor,” she meekly whispered, ducking into a dark corner. Hugging herself, she wondered how he would manage to distract them. After what felt like an eternity to the young woman, Sandor appeared holding a torchlight.

 “Prepare yourself, little bird, this isn’t like Winterfell's cells.”

Shakily she nodded and pulled the hood of her cloak over her face. She had never been to the cells in Winterfell, but Sansa had no doubt the Black Cells were far worse, as everything was in the Red Keep.

The weak cries of the prisioners echoed eerily through the cavernous rock walls, and the path inside was completely black save the light Sandor held in front of them. Rats scurried around her feet as she followed Sandor’s steps deeper into the cells. The overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies and open, filthy chamber pots in the humid, suffocating tunnels nearly gagged her.

Seemingly sensing her discomfort, Sandor handed her a handkerchief. “This will help.”

Sansa accepted it, grateful she could not see the horrors around her. Clinging to him, she silently entreated the old gods for strength.

“Easy, lass,” out of the darkness came his reply, the usual harsh grating of  her husband’s  voice somewhat softened. “We’re almost there.”

Sandor came to an abrupt halt, causing Sansa to bump directly into his broad back. “Here, girl,” he gripped her arm and pulled her in front of him. She heard his deep baritone call out, “Lord Eddard, you have a visitor. Come to the bars.”

“Clegane?” She heard her father ask. “Sandor Clegane, is that you?”

“Aye I brought someone to see you. You have five minutes.” Sandor turned his back to them.

The clattering of chains drew closer until her beleaguered father’s face appeared in the orange glow of the torchlight,

“Lemoncake!” Ned whispered low, grasping her hands through the cold iron grate. Turning to Sandor, he solemnly added, “May the gods bless you for this, Clegane.”

Somewhere Sandor snorted behind her but Sansa ignored him.

Choking back her tears, she whispered, “Dearest Father, what have they done to you?”

“The king hasn’t done very much, child, only kept me in the dark with very little food. I've suffered worse.”

Given what little she knew of the place, Sansa doubted that very much.

“We brought you a parcel of food and a canteen,” she anxiously fumbled with her package, forcing it through the bars and into Ned’s waiting hands. “Please tell me, Father, what word from the king?”

Ned sighed, “Child, Lord Varys came bearing the news that Joffrey plans to execute me.”  

“No! It cannot be!”

A large hand gently reached around her waist, squeezing her close to Sandor's chest. “Little bird, hush.”

Gathering herself, she patted Sandor’s hand. More quietly, Sansa asked, “Why so soon? What has happened?”

Sandor’s breath fell hot against her ear. “Stannis is sailing his fleet here to lay siege to King’s Landing. He means to take the Iron throne by force. Joff wants to kill your father to prevent the north from joining Stannis’ ranks.”

“The north would never support him!” Her eyes darted up to him defiantly. “Not with Robb-“

“Clegane speaks truly, child,” Ned interrupted gently. “Renly is dead now; Varys confirmed it this morning. The queen knows that I am acquainted with Stannis, whereas your brother is not. It matters not what we know of northerners; the king and the queen regent are convinced that my death will sever all Baratheon ties to the north.”

Weakly Sansa slumped against the bars, her breath coming in short gasps. “Is there nothing that can be done?”

“No, child,” Ned kissed her hands tenderly.  “You must not fret. Clegane has vowed to me that he will keep you safe.”

“I cannot bear to lose you, Father! There must be a way to prevent it.”

“No, Lemoncake,” Ned answered gravely. “Winter is coming with a vengence for us, Sansa. I will die here, and one day I hope my bones will be returned to Winterfell. Promise me, lass.”

“I promise, Father,” Sansa’s tears flowed freely. Pressing her lips to his cheek, she tenderly kissed him. “Are you not afraid?”

“No child,” he shook his head and forced his mouth into a tight smile. “I learned how to die a long time ago.”

"Sansa, we must go." When she lingered, Sandor's iron grasp took hold of her arm. "Now."

"Go, child," Ned kissed her once more. "Clegane, I'm grateful you brought my daughter to see me one last time. Take this,” he handed Sandor a weirwood direwolf insignia. “Show it to any northern lord and they’ll give you safe passage, should you manage to leave here during the upcoming battle with Stannis.”

Taking Sansa’s hands one last time, Ned kissed each of them and whispered, “I'll go to the Kings of Winter a happy man with the vision of your sweet face, Sansa."

Choking out a sob, Sansa whispered, "I love you, Father. I will pray for you," before allowing Sandor to lead her out of the cells.


	6. The Mockingbird

Once outside the prison, heaving sobs wracked Sansa’s body, the young woman finally allowing her tears to flow freely. She knew she should hold her feelings inside, and she had been taught that a lady never openly weeps in public, but Sansa did not care. The king ordered her father executed, and once out of his sight, all efforts at restraint collapsed under the weight of her grief.

Grunting, Sandor stood motionless beside her, his face twitching as he watched her give vent to her feelings.

“Sandor, I cannot believe Joffrey would order my father’s execution! I felt certain he would at least treat with Robb-“

“Be silent or it will mean your head on a spike, little bird,” he rasped roughly, the gruff man gently placing his arms around her shoulders. Distraught, Sansa clung to him.

Her actions seemed to startle the Hound but he did not pull away. Still, her husband did not feel close enough to suit her, and Sansa wrapped her arms around Sandor’s large frame and buried her face in his neck, wishing she could take some of his ferocity for her own.  

His arms stiffened for a moment before he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed her tightly against his heavily muscled body. The awkwardness of his movements both saddened and strangely amused her, for clearly the embraces Sandor gave so eagerly in the darkness brought immense discomfort to him in the light of day.

Resting her head on the cold metal of his breastplate, Sansa wished she could feel the warmth of his arms around her then. As her tears abated, Sansa's newfound regard for him startled her and suddenly rendered her shy. Slowly she lowered herself from his grip, and sensing she was comforted, he gently set her back on her feet. “Wait until we get back to our rooms, then we’ll talk.”

“Yes, husband, thank you.” Her eyes traveled over to the two guards slumped at the entranceway, thick blood seeping from gaping wounds at each of the men’s throats.

“Stay hidden. I have to get rid of them.”

“I will.” Fear gripped Sansa as her father’s words replayed in her mind. Sinking down on the step of the alcove, she hugged her knees to her chest and silently prayed to the old gods. After what felt like an eternity, the faint splash of water resounded outside.

When Sandor returned he yanked her to her feet, and then surprised her by carefully taking her face in his hands and dabbing her tears with his thumbs.

“Did you throw them in the moat?” Sansa stuttered out. “Please, you can tell me.”

“Aye,” he set his jaw and then handed her a damp handkerchief.

 “Won’t someone find them?” Sansa persisted.

After barking out a snarling laugh, he shook his head. “No, little bird. The Imp had the moat filled with crocodiles from Dorne in preparation for the battle.”

His cold words sent a shiver through her body. _Sandor took the lives of those men with no more thought than if he were disposing of rats so that I could see my father. How easy it is for him to kill. How easy it is for him to kill for me,_ she marveled to herself _._

The young woman was both frightened and strangely excited by the notion, and despite her emotional state, she took his hand in her own and held it against her cheek. “Thank you, husband, for bringing me to see my father and for making it possible.”

After Sansa pressed the cold material to her face, she turned her face up to him. “How do I look?”

“You don’t look the worse for wear. Let’s go.” After taking her by the arm, Sandor clenched his jaw tightly and then turned her to face him once more. “I meant what I told Lord Eddard, little bird; I will keep you safe.”

“I believe you,” Sansa offered a shaky smile and placed her hand on his arm once more. “And I do appreciate it, Sandor, truly.”

“I know you do, little bird,” he rasped quietly before silently leading her back to the Red Keep once more. “But you deserve far better than me. I’m only like to give you grief; I don’t know shit about being a proper husband.”

“I do not believe you will. Granted,  I was very afraid of you at first,” she said quietly, “But you have been good to me, in your own way, and you are protective. I can see the gods answered my prayers.”

Suddenly, Sandor turned to face her, his normally hard eyes revealed a softer sentiment far warmer than she had ever seen. Encouraged, she went on. “I did not want to marry Joffrey, and-“

Several noblemen approached opposite them, ending their conversation. The men stared but Sandor paid them no mind, stalking past them with an air of danger that sent them shuffling out of his way, his huge form clearing a path for Sansa. Behind them, the men sniggered contemptuously.

 _If they knew what he just did, they would think twice about taunting us,_ she thought angrily. Abruptly the young woman stopped, and Sandor looked down at her with a frown. Before he could protest, Sansa drew his head down to hers and placed a gentle kiss on his lips, her actions suddenly replacing the laughter of the passersby with startled murmuring.

A hot flush spread through her but Sansa allowed her mouth to linger on his for a bit before she pulled away. Sansa held his hands and smiled up at him shyly, her bravado giving way to apprehension.

For a moment she was afraid her intimidating husband would upbraid her openly affectionate gesture. Instead, Sandor surprised her by smiling a devilish grin, his obvious amusement reaching clear up to his eyes. Without a word, he straightened up to his full height and looped her arm though his as they resumed their walk once more.

Out of the garden, Lord Baelish and his companion Ros appeared, moving directly into their path. Though she could not say why, something about the way her mother’s childhood friend looked at her had always sent a flurry of nerves to her stomach. Sansa uneasily drew closer still to Sandor, who responded by gripping her arm firmly and glaring at the man.

“Well, if it isn’t the Hound, taking his lady for a walk,” Littlefinger japed, pointing at them. "Kissing and such. How very unlike you.”

“Bugger that,” Sandor growled low. “Bugger you.” His body was taut and ready for action; taking his cue, Sansa wisely moved away from him.

“Lady Clegane," he bowed low when their eyes met.

“Lord Baelish; my lady,” Sansa shifted awkwardly and pulled her cloak closer while moving further behind her husband. Deliberately Sandor reached behind his back and rested one hand on the hilt of his fighting knife while the other blocked the mockingbird’s approach to her.

“Well done, Lord Clegane, well done. It seems I am not the only grasper from a minor house with a talent for befriending powerful men,” Baelish glanced suggestively at Sansa, “and _women_. Soon you will surpass your brother’s honors though you persist in refusing knighthood.”

“What do you want, Littlefinger?” The Hound spat on the ground at Lord Baelish’s feet while motioning for Sansa to stay behind him.

Lord Baelish peeked around Sandor’s imposing frame at Sansa. “Strange, isn’t it, my lady?”

“What is?” Sansa could not help but ask despite Sandor’s snort of disgust. Ros nervously swallowed and averted her eyes.

“How certain people get what they want,” he smirked at the Hound, “and then soon discovers they want something else. Curious, isn’t it?”

A swell of fear surged through Sansa. _What does he want from us?_  Steeling herself, she offered her most polite smile. “I am not certain I understand you, Lord Baelish. Pray forgive me; I am most inadequate when it comes to understanding masculine conversation, as I am sure you have gathered from Joffrey’s comments at court.”

Uncertainly she glanced up at Sandor, who clenched his jaw and gripped the hilt of his greatsword.  His patience with the man had long expired, and so Sansa stepped forward and tightened her grip on his arm.

“Get to the fucking point, if you have something to say. I haven’t got time to listen to a mockingbird chirping.”

“Indeed,” Baelish simpered. “You are an important man now, Lord Clegane.”

“What in bloody hells is that supposed to mean?”

“You are playing a far greater role in carrying out the King’s wishes than you realize. The king has further plans for you-for the both of you. His Grace’s court will convene in tommorrow; you will find out all you need to know then.”

Sandor’s arm squeezed her lightly, and Sansa felt his whole body stiffen in response, though he merely shrugged disinterestedly at Littlefinger.

“Might I speak with Lady Sansa alone for a moment?”

Sandor glanced at her questioningly, and Sansa nodded slightly at her husband; Baelish obviously was up to something, and so she decided she would chirp the words he wanted to hear in hopes of learning more.

Glaring, Sandor shook his head and sighed. “Aye but be quick about it.” Bending down, he brushed his lips against her cheek. “I’ll be right over there, wife,” Sandor said, pointing to a spot not ten feet away.

The altogether unexpected gesture flustered the young woman for a moment. Sansa felt a flood of heat rush to her cheeks; her embarrassment did not escape Lord Baelish’s notice: the man reddened, clearly angry at the Hound’s display of devotion. _Why should he care what Sandor and I do?_

Gritting his teeth, Baelish extended his arm to her.

“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her, if you mean to keep it.” Sandor growled, startling two knights walking past them.

“Let us retire to the bench,” Lord Baelish gestured, all the while warily watching Sandor.

Clenching his knees, the small man leaned in close and stroked his beard. “You are the property of the crown, you know. Being wed to the Hound means nothing to the king and affords you no protection whatsoever.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Sansa feigned ignorance while placidly smoothing her skirts.

“You wanted to be wed to a prince and live in the capital as queen, or so your mother told me. Before long, though, you wanted to be free of your engagement to Joffrey and now you want to be free of Clegane, isn’t that right?”

Terror clung to her throat, but Sansa schooled her face into a bright smile and answered evenly: “My engagement to the king was an honor, a great honor indeed, but he certainly knew it was for the best we did not marry once my father turned traitor.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sandor shift on his feet and step closer, his piercing gaze weighing heavily upon her. “And King Joffrey chose well for me; Lord Clegane is good to me and we are happy together. I am most grateful to the king.”

Lord Baelish’s mouth pulled into a thin line of a smile, drawing her attention to the truth of an observation she once overheard her father make, that Lord Baelish’s eyes did not smile when his mouth did.

“I hope you know I am your friend, Sansa-your true friend.”

Sansa glanced over at Ros, who stared at her apprehensively. “I do-“

“That’s enough of you, Littlefucker," Sandor interrupted, pulling her close against his side while brushing past Lord Baelish. "And know that if a mockingbird ever dares step between me and my woman again, he'll find himself cut into a thousand pieces and fed to Prince Tommen's cats."

"Is that a veiled thread, my lord? Very unlike a Clegane, I must say," Lord Baelish tisked, though fear flickered in his eyes.

Enraged, Sandor whipped around and drew his face down mere inches from Lord Baelish.

"I don't make threats," he rasped ominously. "If you doubt my word, just try me and see." Turning back to Sansa, Sandor took her arm carefully and drew it through his own. "Come, wife.”

The terrible news about her father and Baelish’s cryptic words grated on Sansa the entire way back to their rooms. Sandor remained silent, his eyes brooding and his burned face twitching into the unreadable expression she saw so often in court.

Once safely inside, Sansa could barely contain her anxiety as she whispered, “What do you suppose Joffrey wants from us? And what was Lord Baelish about?”

Sandor shrugged. “Mayhap he wants to be the one to tell you of your father’s sentence. Best prepare to chirp your sweetest song for Joff. Gods only know what that little shit has in mind.”

“Yes, I will,” Sansa sighed shakily. "Though after learning about my father,  I find I have no voice for it now."

“You sung a sweet tale with Littlefinger,” he offered, the jealous tone in his voice taking her by surprise. “I overheard what you said.”

“I was not chirping then, Sandor. I meant my words.” Glancing at him beneath lowered lashes, Sansa whispered, “I am very grateful. You have been good to me.”

Snorting, Sandor shook his head. “And would you call us _happy_ , little bird? Is that what we are?”

She knew he would not like her choice of words the moment they left her lips but she was ill prepared to address them in her current state.

Shrugging, Sansa answered sadly, “I cannot speak for you, but as for me, I am happier with you here than I have been since arriving at King’s Landing. If not for-”

“I’m sure it’s the fairy tale you’ve dreamed of since you were a wee lass,” he spat out angrily, interrupting her. “Or mayhap it’s more like some sweet song about knights and fair maids. You like knights, don’t you?”

She hated the way he talked, always so harsh and angry.

“Knights are for killing, you said to me once,” Sansa stepped closer to him and timidly placed her hand on his shoulder. “Both of us lost our taste for fairy tales at young age, so do not speak to me of such anymore, my lord.”

Sandor angrily turned away from her and sank down on the bed.

Sansa followed him and rested her hand on his shoulder once more.

“Though I do not always care for the manner in which you offer your warnings, I am grateful that, in your own way, you try to open my eyes. You have always been honest. It is far more than anyone else has done for me here.”

Cursing under his breath, Sandor stared at her hard for several long moments, the anger slowly receding as he regarded her. Brusquely Sandor stood and rubbed his hand over his face.

“I’ll be back in a moment. Lock the door behind you and don’t open it for anyone but me, understand?”

Confused, she nodded and followed him to the door.

“Thank you again for taking me to Father,” she murmured sadly and then drew his face down to hers.

Sandor remained frozen in place as she tentatively cupped his burned cheek while softly kissing him, her lips pressed just above his jawline.

Sansa felt him draw in a sudden breath as her lips met his skin but he did not pull away; and for a brief moment he leaned in closer to her. Gently she ran her fingers back through his hair as she released him.

“So that wasn’t just for the benefit of the lords?” He rasped quietly.

“No, Sandor, it was only for you...for _us_.”

When Sansa pulled back to face him, the young woman was stunned to see tears pearling in the corners of the fierce man’s eyes.

Without a word Sandor turned away and hurried out of the room.


	7. The Visitor

After Sandor left, Sansa smiled softly to herself and pressed her fingers to her mouth, savoring the earthy taste of his skin on her lips. _He wasn’t angry with me, and if I didn’t know better, I would say he was rather pleased that I kissed him._ The very nearness of him sent a peculiar warmth throughout her body; that is, until she recalled the reason she was thanking him.

 _Father is to be executed-it cannot be! There must be some way to convince Joffrey to free him._ Pacing the room like a caged wolf, Sansa recognized the futility of such thinking as soon as the idea took hold. _The king would do it for sport; he would like nothing better than to kill Father, if for no other reason than to upset me and dishearten Mother and Robb’s war effort._

Distraught, Sansa sank to her knees and entreated the old gods and the new to save him. She cried for her mother and father, for Lady, for Bran and Rickon, Jon and Arya; she cried for herself, for the life she left behind in Winterfell, and the life she now had in the Red Keep. And Sansa cried for Sandor, for the cruelty and pain he endured as a child that left him unable to believe anyone would truly care for him. Sansa cried until she felt she had no tears left, until her eyes were scratchy,  her throat raw, and her head pounded with every heartbeat.

By the time her sobs finally abated, it was late afternoon. She took out one of Sandor’s cloaks, wrapped herself in it, and lay down on the bed, drawing strength from his masculine scent. She wished he would return soon. Emotionally and physically exhausted, the young woman soon fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

In her dreams, Sansa leapt off the balcony of her room and transformed into a bird, soaring high over the walls of the Red Keep. Far below, she spied a large pit surrounded by cheering spectators, and perching on the roof of the Great Sept of Baelor, she settled herself down to watch.

Inside the center of the pit, a massive direwolf with grizzled fur and a gray muzzle fought hard against a large man intent on staking him to a post. After much struggle, he wounded the animal in the leg before he finally succeeded in gaining the mastery over him.

The iron grate suddenly opened and into the arena prowled a lioness and her cub, her eyes glittering green in the sunlight. In the distance she heard the call of a crow, no, a mockingbird, echoing against the walled enclosure. The two cats listened to the mockingbird song and then began circling the direwolf, hissing and spitting and scratching at him.

The huge direwolf snarled and growled but he could not hold off both animals at once in his weakened state.  A cold fear crept through Sansa as she watched the bewildering scene unfold. Crying out at the top of her voice, she tried to comfort the direwolf but the only sound from her throat was the soft chirping of a small northern snow bird.

Defeated, she anxiously edged closer to the ledge. A huge, ferociously scarred black dog answered her call, taking a defensive position between the lions and the direwolf. Several men tried to remove the dog, but no one dared draw close to the snapping, snarling beast. Finally, a huge stag entered the pit, and distracted, the lions retreated from the buck, which snorted and lowered its antlers at them.

The heavily muscled dog then cautiously approached the old direwolf and began chewing on its restraints. Once the dog freed the direwolf, the two animals stood together against the lioness, her cub and the stag, snarling so ferocious that the other creatures retreated to the recesses of the arena once more.

Once assured they were gone, the black dog raised its head and yipped softly several times. Out from the shadows, a small copper colored direwolf cub rushed into the arena and nuzzled the two fearsome creatures while wagging her tail excitedly. She felt a kinship wih the animals, bringing tears of joy as she watched the brave dog and his direwolf companions as they clawed and bit their way through the crowd, eventually escaping the arena and disappearing into the Kingswood.

When they faded from view, Sansa raised her wings and took to flight, intent on following them as they raced toward the snowy mountains of the north. She opened her mouth to sing, and the sound that came from her throat was that of Lady howling in the godswood.

A loud noise startled from sleep. Rubbing her eyes, she glanced around, confused: the experience had felt so real, she was both surprised and disappointed to discover it was only a dream.

* * *

_Sandor has returned,_ she realized upon hearing his low rasping voice through the door. Smoothing down her hair and skirts, Sansa peeked into the solar and saw him dragging a well-dressed older woman into the room. He turned to Sansa with bloodshot eyes. _He’s been drinking again_.

“Do what you can for her,” Sandor growled and headed for the door. “Whatever my lady wife wants, give it to her. And something for her to wear to court tomorrow, and none of that shit you sell Baelish’s wenches, understand? I’ve got coin.”

“Yes, Lord Clegane.”

Sandor watched Sansa for a moment and then nodded at her. “Get whatever you want,” he muttered and then hurriedly left the room.

 “My Lady Clegane,” the woman curtseyed low. “It is an honor to meet you. I am Taena. Your lord husband has commissioned new clothing for you.”

The woman was Dornish in coloring, and clearly not one of the royal dressmakers. She sat in disbelief, wondering where Sandor had found her. The woman smiled at her and took several sample patterns and swatches of material out of her bag.

Remembering her courtesies, Sansa smiled warmly. “Pray forgive my rudeness; I am quite overwhelmed by my husband’s generosity. Please call me Sansa, Lady Taena; I am very glad to meet you.”

“It is not every husband who offers his wife anything she wishes, you know,” she smiled at Sansa. ”Now please, tell me what you would like.”

The young woman paused in thought. “I need new sleeping gowns as well as smallclothes, shifts, corsets, garters and stockings, at least one set for every day of the week. Blue is my favorite color, and gray. Also I would like seven new gowns made in my husband’s colors. I very much want to please him with my appearance.”

“As you wish, my lady,” Taena placed the yellow and black materials in front of Sansa before her eyes fell on the worn garment hanging next to the door. “Would you like a new cloak as well?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sansa smiled as she poured over the silk embroidered fabrics.

“Lord Clegane insisted that you have a new gown at once.” The woman cast a quick glance at the material pulled tight across her bosom. “I can see he was right, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

“No, it is alright, Lady Taena. Anyone can plainly see that I have long outgrown my clothing,” Sansa anxiously smoothed down her skirts. “I would not scold you for your honest observation.”

Quickly the woman took her measurements and made several notes on a sheet of paper. Reaching into her bag, Taena then pulled out a pale yellow gown with a black velvet sash. “Here, I believe this one will suit you very well. I took the liberty of choosing it in the colors of your lord’s house. It will be a bit too big for you but I can alter it straight away.”

“It is beautiful,” Sansa could not help but smile at the silk gown embellished with small black tulle flowers. “Thank you.”

“I will return in several hours with the finished gown,” Taena’s gray eyes crinkled in the corners. “I will bring a new sleeping gown and a shift for you as well; this style requires a lighter undergarment in order to fit properly.”

“That will be fine, my lady. I am certain Sandor will be here by then.”

“Alright, Lady Sansa,” Taena smiled and bowed. “If you will excuse me I will return to my business.”

After the seamstress left, Shae came into the room with tea and refreshments. “I know that one,” she commented darkly. “What was she doing here?”

“Sandor commissioned her to make me a new wardrobe,” Sansa blushed as she sat down to eat.

“So you asked him for new clothes, then?”

“No, he did it on his own.”

Shae raised her eyebrow, her mouth curling into a smile. Just then a soft knock came from the door. She remembered Sandor’s admonition not to open it, and so Sansa waved Shae away and called through the door, “Who is it?”

“It is Ros. I am Lord Baelish’s friend,  Lady Sansa.”

Puzzled, Sansa and Shae exchanged glances. “Friend,” the handmaiden grumbled with a smirk. “Bed warmer, more like.”

“Please, won’t you speak to me for a bit?”

After several moments, Sansa cautiously opened the door. “Yes, my lady, what is it?”

Shae snorted behind her. “So now you are a lady. I thought you were Lord Baelish’s _business associate_.”

Ros avoided Shae’s hardened glare and bowed to Sansa as she entered the room.

 _So she is Littlefinger’s woman._ A sick sinking feeling welled in her stomach for the second time that day. _I could swear this is the woman Mother caught Theon with during King Robert’s visit._ “Did you not travel from Wintertown when my family left Winterfell?”

After a long pause, Shae hissed, “Answer my lady.”

“Aye,” Ros began warily. “You are good to remember, my lady, but be assured that is all behind me now.” Turning to Shae, she added with a knowing smile, “You’re her handmaiden?”

“Yes. What do you want?” Shae rested her hands on her hips.

Looking the woman over, Sansa’s mind began to whirl with questions she dared not ask. Sandor enjoyed looking at her, she knew, and many times she felt his need pressed hot and hard against her thigh as he held her. Yet so far the man never attempted to claim his husbandly right to her, had never even undressed or caress her and instead contented himself with innocently nuzzling into her hair and throat.

Being raised in a house full of men, Sansa knew that man’s desires ruled them in a way that a lady dared not allow.  _I wonder if she has ever entertained my husband; I wonder if she entertains him still._

“I needs speak with Lady Clegane about her husband.”

 _The Mother save me, she has come to tell me of his indiscretions_. Paling, Sansa’s eyes darted toward Shae.

“About what?” Shae angrily stepped forward. “What could you possibly tell her about her own husband?”

“I am not sure I should say in front of you.” Ros glanced uneasily at Sansa.

“It is alright,” Sansa smiled nervously. “I trust her even though she tells me not to.”

Ros paused a moment, the said, “As you wish. Lord Baelish doesn’t know I’ve come to you. You and your husband are in danger, my lady.”

“From Lord Baelish? No, he just takes and interest in us because he loved my mother, and-“

“Forgive me for questioning your word, my lady, but I overheard him speaking to the king, after we-“

“After you entertained him.” Shae interrupted and shook her head.

“Yes,” Ros faltered. “He put the idea in King Joffey’s head to have you examined by a septa to see if you have been-“

“What?” Sansa leaned closer. “Why?”

“To see if your husband has bedded you,” Shae finished with a frown.

“You speak truly. Lord Baelish is determined to have your marriage annulled so he may take you with him to the Vale where Joffrey has sent him to the Lady Lysa Arryn, to form a marriage alliance.”

“Why would the king let him take Sansa?” Shae asked suspiciously.

“Because Sansa is who he wants, on account of her strong resemblance to her mother, and Joffrey knows she would be completely cut off from the world in the Vale. He is also aware of many of Lord Baelish's, shall we say, unusual appetites.”

“No, he is not in love with me, he is too old-“

“Men never see that they are too old for a pretty woman, my lady, and love is _not_ what he wants,” Shae rested her hands on Sansa’s shoulders. Ros nodded gravely.

“No, it is not possible, my aunt would not-she could not do that to Mother and Robb-“ Sansa stammered, fresh tears welling in her eyes.

Shae lead her over to a chair. “Easy, child, you have had a very trying day. When you go, would you fetch Lord Clegane?”

“Certainly,” Ros nodded. “I’ll have him sent directly.”

“Thank you.” Stunned, Sansa took the glass of water Shae offered her with shaking hands.

“I heard about your father, my lady, and I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I grew up in the shadow of Winterfell and he was always good to the smallfolk. I’ve not forgotten, you see, and that is why I have come to warn you.”

In a daze, Sansa walked over to Sandor’s money chest and took out a bag of coin.  “Thank you for your loyalty to my father and the north,” she whispered, pressing it into Ros’ hands. “One day I will return there and I will not forget you. The north remembers.”

Ros gave her a broken smile and turned to leave. “My lady, there is one bit of comfort I may offer you, small though it may be.”

“What is that?”

“You might be happy to know that your lord husband, he is true to you. Every night he comes to drink but ever since the two of you wed, he has taken no other. That is most rare, I have found in my line of work.”

Sansa let out a small sigh of relief. “It is a relief. Thank you for telling me.”

After walking her down the hall, Shae turned to Ros. “Why did you tell her, truly?”

“She is an important person. The day she was born they rang the bells from sunrise to sunset. After my mother died, her father brought food stuffs and medicine when my brothers and sisters fell ill. He saved them. I owe Lord Stark to do what I can for her.” She gestured back to the rooms. “Watch out for her.”

“I always do,” Shae turned away from her and started to return to Sansa.

“Watch out for her with Lord Baelish,” Ros whispered and then disappeared from sight.


	8. Sansa's Choice

Sansa poured herself a glass a wine and drank deeply, desperately trying to settle her nerves. _Mother’s mercy, when Sandor finds out that I invited Ros into our quarters, there’s no telling how he will react._ And when he learned of Joffrey and Lord Baelish’s plans, well, she didn’t even want to imagine what would happen next.

“What should I do?” She turned to Shae, clutching the young woman's arm.

Shae shrugged, “Tell your husband. You don't want him to hear it from another person.”

Exasperated, Sansa sighed. “I know that. I mean, what should I do about…you know.”

Folding her arms, Shae stared at her. “How do you feel about him?”

 _How do I feel about him?_ She was no longer afraid of him, of that she was certain. He proved himself trustworthy and loyal, and despite his rough ways, he was good to her. There was something more than gratitude stirring within her as of late, something new and pleasant that colored her interactions with him as well.

The intense way Sandor stared at her had begun making her feel excited and shy, and when he held her at night, Sansa felt warm and satisfied in a way she had never experienced before.  She began to crave more from her husband-more of his touches, his warmth, and the feel of his heavily muscled arms around her and his scarred lips against her cheek.

Earlier when she kissed him on the mouth in the gardens, a curious heat spread through her body, making her tingle and ache in her woman’s place. Sansa had no words, no point of reference to interpret these strange new emotions-could it be love? Had love come later for her with her husband, as it had for her lady mother and father? When she looked up, Shae was watching her intently.

“I-I don’t know,” Sansa stammered while wringing her hands. Rolling her eyes, Shae turned her back and began hanging up her clothes.

“I am beginning to care for him," she offered nervously, "and he makes me feel-well, when I am with him, I feel somewhat-“

“Warm? Shy?” Shae gently prompted. “Excited? Nervous?”

Sansa colored clear down to her bodice. “Yes, all of those things,” she whispered.

Laughing softly, Shae nodded. “Well, that’s how it begins, or so I’m told.”

Unable to stifle her curiosity, she asked quietly, “Do you mean love?”

Shae smirked at her innocence but Sansa did not mind. “Yes, my lady. I know your husband cares for you; anyone with any sense can see that. I also know he has not bedded you; perhaps it is time to consider doing so.”

The young woman was so taken aback that she could barely form words. “How-how do you know that?”

“I change your linens, remember? Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone,” she patted Sansa’s shoulder. “But whatever you do, tell him  about the king’s plans before you take him into your bed or he will think you used him ill.”

“Oh, yes, that would be dreadful,” Sansa agreed. “I must find a way to reassure him that I want to be his wife for true, and not just because if I am found to be a maiden, it will mean an annulment.”

“He is fond of honest speech, Sansa-just tell him the truth and he will believe you.” Shae’s mouth curled into a wicked grin. “He wouldn’t be the worst man to bed. He is so very large. Why have you waited so long?"

Shrugging, Sansa hesitantly answered, “I do not know; I have let it up to him, and he has never tried anything beyond holding me."

"He is afraid you will reject him. Do you find him unattractive?"

"At first, yes, I did, but I have grown accustomed to his face. His eyes are quite striking and he is very muscular.”

“If you bed him, you’ll see far more pleasant things than his face,” Shae chuckled. “He is built like the marble statue of the Warrior in the sept; all of the women at court comment on it.”

“Shae!” Sansa scolded, her scandalized expression sending the young handmaiden into peals of laughter.  Unable to resist, Sansa soon joined her. It felt good to her to laugh with and confide in another woman, for she had been so long without her mother, and Sansa found there was a great deal she had yet to learn about being a woman.

“Well, have you made up your mind to do it?”

It would feel good to be closer to him, and to give him pleasure as well. “Yes, I have,” she answered decidedly. “I will become his wife for true, not just because of Joffrey, but because I do care for him-that is, if he will have me.”

Shae laughed openly. “The only man who would turn you away from his bed is Loras Tyrell, and a good deal many women besides would also like the pleasure.”

Confused, Sansa only nodded absently and worried her lip.

“Didn’t your septa teach you about what happens in the marriage bed?” Shae asked while drawing the brush through her hair.

“Well, yes."

"What did she tell you?"

"She spoke of it as a duty, that it was to please the man and for bringing forth children. She said I should think of the sons I would bear during the act itself, and that to do so would make the experience less distasteful.”

Shae stifled another giggle with difficulty. “I have always wondered why Westerosi highborns leave it to women who have never taken a man into their bed to educate their daughters on such matters. Come child, ask me any manner of question you wish and I will answer you as best I can.”

After Shae’s invitation, Sansa mustered the courage to ask the many questions she had about what goes on between a man and a woman in the marriage bed, and the young woman came away from the conversation feeling far better prepared for what she had planned with her husband.

When Taena returned, Shae discreetly took Sansa aside. “That one is a spy for Cersei; I doubt your lord husband knows it but I have it on good authority from Tyrion. Tell her nothing and tell your husband her true nature-after you get your clothes. He will likely break her neck for her treachery.”

Sansa nodded in agreement and kissed Shae’s cheek before she took her leave.

As she stood before the floor length gilded mirror, Taena handed her a soft turquoise colored silk shift. After staring at it, Sansa blushed at the deep v-cut of the neckline. “We do not wear such under our gowns in the north.”

“It is for the new style of gown,” Taena explained.

Just then, Sandor jerked open the door to the solar. “Little bird, let us go-“

Gasping, Sansa’s hands flew up to cover her breasts _. _It will raise suspicion if she sees that I hide myself from him,_ _ she suddenly realized _. _She will tell the queen and she will then tell Joffrey._ _ Her cheeks reddened at the thought of what she must do.

Taena looked up at her with questioning eyes, and Sansa deliberately lowered her arms to her sides, the deep flush spreading from her cheeks to her neck as she bared her breasts to him.

“Oh, my love, you startled me!" Sansa laughed merrily to hide her embarrassment. "You must forgive me; I did not mean to cause offense. It is only that I am still adjusting to the liberal ways of married life.”

“As you say, wife,” Sandor replied hoarsely, his deep gray eyes glittering with amusement and something warmer Sansa did not recognize. “Think nothing of it. Go on about your business, woman.”

Heat flooded Sansa’s cheeks as Sandor unabashedly stared at her with all his might, the man seemingly frozen in place by the sight of her standing in front of him wearing nothing but her smallclothes and garters. Shyly she smiled and held his eye while Taena resumed adjusting her gown.

"Do sit down husband, I will only be another minute."

The woman turned her face to Sansa and laughed knowingly. “Yes, my lady, it is only natural for you to be thus. It takes a while before newlyweds feel properly married. Soon, you will give such liberties no thought at all. Besides, your husband is clearly quite enamored,” she winked at Sansa. “Truly Lady Clegane, your beauty is both rare and striking. You are a very lucky man, my lord.”

A low growl came from Sandor’s throat, and he slowly nodded in agreement, his eyes roving over body.

“Thank you, that is very kind of you to say, Lady Taena,” Sansa casually replied. She felt anything but calm, however, for Sandor’s lustful gaze sent warm tingles throughout her body.

Finally, Sandor moved away from the door and awkwardly sat down on the chaise while resting his hands in his lap. The look of utter want on his face reminded Sansa of the stray dogs at Winterfell who fought over scraps outside the kitchen. _He is hungry,_ _too,_ she thought triumphantly, _for me._

“Forgive my tardiness, Lord Clegane, I will be done shortly.”

“No matter,” he muttered while gaping at Sansa. “Take your time.”

Sandor’s eyes devoured her body, the man flicking his tongue across his lips slightly.  It was somehow empowering to show herself to Sandor in this way, and the young woman found it both embarrassing and strangely exciting to see the fearsome Hound clearly enjoying the sight of her nakedness. _There is no impropriety in it,_ she told herself, _we are husband and wife, after all_. Lowering her eyes, she casually picked up her new shift, all the while watching Sandor closely.

His intense, intimate regard felt like a physical caress to Sansa. Stunned by the change in her countenance, she stared at her reflection: her fair skin skin flushed pink and glistened with a fine sheen of sweat in the afternoon light while her breasts heaved wantonly as her breath came in short gasps. A curious wetness dampened her woman’s place as she shyly returned his gaze, and briefly the young woman wondered if it was visible through her smallclothes.

Grinning devilishly, Sandor leaned back and placed his hands behind his head with a wicked laugh. She watched his eyes leisurely taking in her body, starting at her face, trailing down to her chest, then to her stomach, and finally settling at her smallclothes. Sansa squeezed her thighs together, earning another low chuckle from her husband.

Blushing furiously, Sansa gathered the silky garment in her hands and pulled it over her head, fully baring her breasts to his view. She heard his breath catch in his throat, the sound almost like a moan.

The dressmaker glanced between them and pointedly cleared her throat. “Lord Clegane, I believe you can manage your lady and her gown without me. If it pleases you, I will take my leave.”

“Be gone then,” he rasped harshly, waving her away, never tearing his eyes away from Sansa.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Sansa watched him licked his lips and shift in his seat. Nonchalantly she adjusted the ribbons at the shoulders and then smiled at Sandor. “Thank you for the beautiful things, husband. You are too good to me.”

Sandor grinned, and for once Sansa noticed his smile reached his eyes.

“My lord, there is the matter of payment,” Taena hesitantly began, averting her eyes when Sandor angrily snapped his head in her direction.

Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a small bag full of coin and tossed it at her. “Should be enough.”

“You are very generous, my lord,” the seamstress bowed and turned to leave.

“Bugger that and get out,” Sandor growled low. As soon as the door closed, he crossed the room. Another flush of heat spread throughout her body but Sansa remained motionless, and the young woman neither covered herself nor did she move away from him. When Sandor drew near, she gave him a bashful smile and abruptly he stopped short.

“You need help with that?” Sandor rasped roughly, gesturing to the garment.

Fumbling with the gown, Sansa handed it to him with trembling hands. “Yes, please.”

Sandor frowned at it and gave it back to her. “Pull it on then.”

His eyes roamed over her body as she slowly slipped the gown over her shoulders. When she glanced down, Sansa noticed the afternoon light had rendered the fine silk transparent. Sandor noticed it too, and he swallowed hard and openly stared at her breasts.  

Sandor steadily met her gaze, his steely gray eyes simmering with a new, fiery emotion that set Sansa’s cheeks ablaze. “Come here, lass.” The husky depth in his tone sent a shiver through her.

“Are you cold?” Sandor asked low, trailing his index finger down her arm.

“Yes, a bit,” Sansa softly answered, her voice suddenly breathy. She was, in fact, anything but cold, and gently she cupped his face in her hands.

Watching her face, he continued tracing a line up her arm, over her shoulder and around her collarbone, tentatively at first and then more eagerly as he smoothed his hands down her back.

They stared at each other for what felt like a long time to Sansa, so nervous she was at her own daring behavior. She swallowed hard, willing the catch in her throat to dissolve.

Suddenly, his eyes turned angry, and Sandor balled his hands into fists and then slowly lowered them to his sides. Sansa stepped closer, holding on to him firmly. “I am glad you came back early tonight. I-I missed you earlier.”

 _What angered him?_   She could not tell, but it gave her a moment’s pause. How would she tell him about Ros? Sandor’s deep gray eyes smoldered, burning into her.   “Do you-do you want to kiss me?” Sansa took his hand in her own. “It is alright if you do. I want you to kiss me.”

Looking down at her open gown, his eyes then searched her face pleadingly, begging for permission. Carefully she lightly brushed her lips against his jaw and nuzzled into his beard. Finally he relented, turned his face toward her and then covered her mouth with his own. She heard a low moan in the back of his throat, and he tangled his hands in her hair, deepening the kiss.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his hands on her ribcage, his thumbs lightly stroking circles over her skin. Sansa moved his hand up to cup her breast. “It is alright, husband.”

Sandor flexed his fingers and palmed her breast, kneading it softly. “Gods but you are a beauty,” he breathed into her ear, rolling her nipple between his fingers. The feel of his large hands on her body ignited something wonderful and warm that Sansa had no words to describe. Moaning softly, she leaned against him as his moved his hand to her other breast.

“You feel so good,” she whispered. “Kiss me again, please.” Sandor brought his lips to her neck and began kissing her right below the ear. At the feel of his warm mouth on her skin, she whimpered slightly, and Sandor stroked one breast while he continued running his tongue over her skin.

Drawing a deep breath, his rough knuckles grazed her bare flesh as he moved the strap of her shift out of his way. Taking his time, he trailed kisses along her collar bone to the hollow of her throat, lightly sucking there.

Slowly Sansa turned her to face him and Sandor knelt before her, baring her body to the waist and taking her hardened nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue over it.

In the back of her mind Sansa knew she needed to stop and tell him what Ros had said, but once his warm wet mouth descended on her, she was adrift on a sea of want, and all reason left her mind. Gasping once again, she pulled his head closer to her while running her hands over his broad shoulders.

“Sandor,” she half whispered, half moaned into his hair, cradling his head against her body.   

He seemed to sense things were moving a bit too fast for her, for Sandor cleared his throat and stepped away. “Best get dressed. I’m ready to eat.” The way he spoke told her that he was hungry for far more than food, and the naughty implication sent a delicious shiver through her.

After struggling with the ties for several minutes, Sansa pulled at the sashes and threw up her hands. “I feel so foolish-I am a woman wedded and I cannot even dress myself.” Noticing his puzzled expression, she explained, “The gown is beautiful but it is a new style and I am not sure how to tie it.”

Sandor moved closer to her. “Turn around. Face the mirror.” She obeyed and turned her back to him, lifting her hair over her shoulder. Gently he reached around her middle and laced the sash through his fingers, first tying it at her hip, and then he brought the second layer of material around her waist.

“See, this is the way,” his breath was hot in her ear. _My husband is helping me dress,_ she mused, watching his large hands deftly wrap her gown. Giggling softly, she patted his cheek. His eyes darted to hers, and unexpectedly he returned her smile. Once finished, Sandor rested his hands on her waist and lightly held her against his chest. Without a word, Sansa laid her hands over his and stared at their reflection, reveling in their newfound closeness. He chuckled softly behind her. “I’m not much of a handmaiden.

Sansa felt contented and safe in his arms, and she was unwilling to end their closeness. Finally she became aware that he was staring at her, and so she dazedly whispered, “Thank you.”

Grinning, Sandor turned her toward him again. “Always so courteous.” 

Sansa turned her face up to him, thinking he was going to kiss her, but he only returned her hair to its place, smoothing his hand over it carefully. The quiet intimacy of the gesture suddenly filled her eyes with tears, and she blurted out, “Sandor, the king has the most awful of plans!”

“I know, little bird, I heard it earlier," Sandor leaned in, his eyes darkening angrily. "What I want to know, is who told you?”


	9. The Aftermath

Casting her eyes downward, Sansa wrung her hands as she watched Sandor pace the room. “Lord Baelish’s woman Ros came by earlier and she told me all about it. She said she warned us because of her loyalty to my father and the north.”

Sandor grabbed her arm and roughly yanked her closer. “You didn’t let that whore in here, did you? I told you not to open that fucking door to anyone! What in bloody hells were you thinking?”

Jerking away from him, Sansa’s cheeks burned. “Do not manhandle me in such a manner! I am your wife, not your prisoner, or has that changed?”

“Fuck Sansa, don’t put words in my mouth!” Drawing closer, he gripped his hands tightly into fists. “You know damned good and well why I told you not to open that door-it could have been Meryn, or Boros, or Baelish on the other side! Or didn’t you think for a few coins that his whore wouldn’t have pulled that trick on you out of some bullshit obligation to your father?”

Now that she thought of it, it had not occurred to her. _He is angry because he is afraid for me._ Still, Sansa was tired of him ordering her around and far too infuriated to back away from him. _He is my husband; he should share his reasons instead of just expecting blind obedience!_ Her ears turned red as a fresh wave of anger swept through her.

“Then why did you not say as much? Do you think me so stupid that I would not understand-or are you determined to treat me as a prisoner?” Turning her back to him she muttered, “Maybe I have always been your prisoner, and not your wife.”

“What in bloody hells does that mean?” Sandor’s face paled, the burned side twitching furiously as he turned her toward him. “Don’t fucking play your games with me, girl-“

Her courtesy gone, Sansa’s words came tumbling out until the young woman finally voiced all of her fears and frustrations.  “You are the one playing games! That is it, isn’t it? That is why you are so angry-because I figured you out! That is why you have never claimed your husbandly rights to me!”

“Not another word, woman,” Sandor rasped menacingly, but Sansa was far too enraged to stop.

“One moment you are caring and the next you rage and rant! Every night you cannot wait for me to fall asleep so you can hold me and yet every day you bark and snarl at me. You shame me by spending every evening in Lord Baelish’s houses of ill repute and only come home when you are staggering drunk!”

Rolling his eyes, Sandor slammed his fists down on the table and shouted angrily. “What do you want from me, gods be damned?” He lunged for her, but she quickly sidestepped him; not fast enough, however, for Sandor’s large hand caught her wrist in an iron grip. “What do want from me?”

”Let me go, and do not dare raise your hand to me like this again!” Instantly Sandor turned loose of her, his mouth agape. “You are not the only one in this family who can get mad and run out of the room!” Sansa stalked past him. “I am leaving!”

“The Seven hells you are!” Sandor stood stock still in front of her, the man’s face twisted in fury; beneath his anger, Sansa recognized cold fear.   _So it is fear that fuels his anger,_ she absently thought, though she was far too angry herself to care at that moment.

Hissing out his frustration,  Sandor cautiously stepped closer, taking hold of her arm more gently, but Sansa  whirled out of his reach. _“_ Stay away from me! How dare you go from kissing me and tying my gown to _this_? I should have never trusted you-I should have never opened my heart to you! I-I was beginning to care for you and you…you-”

Tears stung her eyes, but Sansa angrily blinked them away, unwilling to let him see how hurt she was by his behavior. She was startled to see her words seemed to have a similar effect on Sandor, and it gave her a terrible perverse satisfaction to see him look as hurt as she felt.

“I can’t let you go out in the Red Keep at night alone,” Sandor said quietly.

A sudden, horrible thought entered her mind, and gasping, Sansa raised her hand to her throat.  “Did Joffrey wed me to you so that you would be able to guard me even closer since he took my father prisoner? Tell the truth!”

“No, little bird,” he rasped out, reaching for her. “Come now, calm yourself.”

She darted away once more but this time he caught her up in his arms and held her against his chest tightly. “Look at me.” When she turned away, stubbornly refusing,  Sandor pinched her chin painfully and forced her face up to his. “Look at me, gods be damned!” Sandor’s eyes glittered with a passionate fury, and once more Sansa saw that behind it all, there was his fear. “The king meant to punish you by marrying you to me, nothing more.”

His eyes flashed wild desperation, the man willing her to believe him, and Sansa recognized the truth in his statement. Slumping against him, she hissed, “And yet you seem determined to make it so! You do all you can to make it as unpleasant as possible.” The words barely escaped her mouth before she started to cry in earnest. “You are not the only one who is afraid! I almost think it would be better if it was under orders of the king, at least then I would understand why you dislike me so.”

Suddenly Sandor crushed her body against him, kissing her long and deep and hard, not like the gentle kisses from earlier. His kiss was full of want, pain, and shame, and it took her breath away. Urgently Sansa kissed him back, tangling her fingers in his hair as she grappled for purchase, matching his desperate passion with her own.

“Did you think you married to some buggering knight, who would bring you flowers and sing you songs?” Sandor rasped against her mouth, breathing heavily. “You married the _Hound!_ You think I like being the man the king uses to punish you? The man he thinks would make you the most miserable? It bloody well makes me _sick!_ ”

His breath burned hot against her skin. Sansa felt surrounded by him, by his desire for her, and the heady feeling threatened to make her forget herself. “Then why do you do it?" She pulled away slightly, struggling to catch her breath. “Why do you go out drinking in the brothels and staying out until you think I am asleep? Why do you snarl at me so?”

“I don’t know,” he rasped out, burying his head in her hair miserably and clutching her tightly against him once more. “I wish to the Seven I did. I can’t stand this fucking place and I can’t bear your misery, knowing there’s not one damned thing I can do about it.”

“What is it you want, Sandor?” She whispered softly against his mouth, the young woman overwhelmed by his impassioned admission. “What do you want from me?”

“Gods be damned, I want all of you, woman, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire gods forsaken life!” Sandor snarled in her face, his eyes wild and frightening once more. His breathing labored, and he struggled to still his fury. 

Sansa was not afraid, not this time, for she realized that this was the first time her husband allowed her to see into his heart. Moved to tears, her own heart responded in kind, and the new, warm regard suddenly bloomed into a deep abiding fervency as she stared into his eyes, so full of pain and anger. Some instinct moved her to draw closer to him still, and Sansa rested her hands on his heaving chest. “Shh, husband, it is alright,” she placed the left one over his heart and covered his mouth with another kiss.

Lifting her in his arms, he thrust his hips against her with a low growl, grinding his hardened manhood into her woman’s place. Squirming beneath him, it was strangely exciting, even with clothing between them, to feel his member lying hot between her legs. Sansa was not put off by his actions, and the sensation sent a rush of wetness between her thighs.

“I want to take you into my bed and touch and taste every sweet inch of you until you scream my name,” Sandor gasped between kisses.  Heat emanated from his body, filling her nose with his heady masculine scent.

She wanted more with him, more of this new closeness, more of his touch, more of his body. Whimpering softly, Sansa wrapped one leg around his back, drawing his hips closer still. “Yes,” Sansa sighed, opening her mouth to him. “Yes, I want that too.”

“I want to taste your pretty teats and sweet cunt,” he ran his hands up to her breasts, squeezing lightly. “I want to taste you so badly, little bird, that my mouth waters at the thought of it.”

“Yes,” she moaned, thrusting her chest into his hands. Normally Sandor’s coarse language embarrassed her, but somehow Sansa didn’t mind, and instead found it rather exciting. “Tell me, what else, Sandor?” She asked breathily, genuinely curious.

Frenzied, Sandor ran his hands down her hips, cupping her bottom with both hands and pressing his cock flush against her woman’s place. Bracing his arms on the wall, he slowly rubbed against her. “I want to hear you beg for my cock as I fuck you senseless, and I want you to look in me in the face as you release.”

“Oh,” she gasped, unlacing his tunic and pulling it over his head. “Yes, please…I want that, too. I want you, Sandor; take my maiden’s gift.”

Laying her down on their bed, her husband quickly unlaced her gown and shift and threw them both on the floor. Sandor then tenderly kissed each breast and nibbled his way down her stomach before quickly settled in between her legs. She stared down at him, glassy eyed and dazed, eager for what was to come.

With a low growl, Sandor pulled the ribbons of her smallclothes free with his teeth and tossed them aside, and the sight of lying naked as her nameday in his bed drew a long gasp from him that melted into a moan. Struggling to control himself, he then moved beside her and took hold her face firmly. “I want more than that, Sansa; I want _you_ , all of you, gods be damned!”

Confused, Sansa cupped his cheek and struggled to slow her own breathing. _What does he mean?_ “I belong to you already, Sandor, in the sight of the gods and men, and after this night, in every way there is.”

Sandor pressed his forehead to hers, and took her in his arms, settling between her legs. “No, not like this!” He grabbed her thigh and pulled her flush against him once again. “I want you to belong to me not just because some bloody septon said a few words! I want you _willing_ , and for this to be by your own choice; not because that fucking inbred king ordered it or that you fear what will happen if you don’t!”

“Shh, Sandor, calm yourself: I am willingly in your bed, now,” Sansa whispered against his lips. His deep gray eyes filled with bitter tears, and briefly, Sansa saw another emotion within her fearsome husband-a glimmer of hope.

“Sansa, I want from you what no buggering holy man can give me…I want you to give me your body, your heart, your trust, all of you, because you.... because you care for me.” His last words came out as a whisper.

“Sandor, I want this with you for no other reason than I-I have come to realize that I am falling in love with you. Take me, husband, I beg of you,” Sansa spoke her words with soft determination, careful not to look away from him. “Make me your wife in truth, but please, be careful with me.”

“Little bird,” he sighed deeply against her breast, and finally Sandor allowed himself to take her.

Gently, reverently he made love to her, taking his time to worship every inch of her young creamy body. Sansa was amazed by how passionate  he was, and at the intensity of pleasure he brought her as well; Sandor touched and tasted her until her body sang, until her eyes wept tears of pleasure, until she soaked them both with her arousal and her woman’s placed throbbed and begged for him to enter her.

“Now, Sandor, gods please-“ Sansa cried out while digging her nails in his back. He groaned against her breast, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks while he expertly worked his fingers between her legs. Something wonderful was building within her, a warm aching need that made her unable to hold back. Sansa moaned loudly above him, and the sound echoed in their room, needy, wanton-all of the things she was taught were unladylike-but Sandor gave her such pleasure that she no longer cared.

“That’s the way. Sing for me, little bird,” Sandor growled as his manhood nudged her opening. With a deep moan he pushed shallowly inside of her and then gradually deeper.

Tears pearled in her eyes as Sansa cried out in a mix of pleasure and pain, her inner muscles tightening around him, drawing him deeper inside. Finally, when she relaxed in his arms, Sandor thrust deep, tearing her maiden’s veil.

Sandor stilled his movements, his entire body trembling with restraint. “Little bird,” he whispered, “It won’t hurt any more now. Look at me.”

When she didn’t respond, Sansa felt him gently brush his hand over her face. “Look at me,” he repeated. She opened them to see Sandor’s eyes, wild and passionate, also betrayed a vulnerable, pleading man silently asking for her acceptance. In that moment Sandor was no longer the Hound, he was her husband, and he revealed a part of himself that Sansa had never before seen in the man. It was then that she knew that she loved him with all her heart, body and soul.

Rising up, Sansa  gently nibbled on his lips. “Yes, my love,” she began moving her hips against him. He pressed his forehead to hers and began thrusting into her, all the while holding her gaze. A warm dull ache of pleasure replaced the pain of losing her maidenhead, and soon she wanted more. Sansa stroked her hands down the broad expanse of his back and over his buttocks encouragingly. She felt full and stretched but she did not mind. She wanted more of him, all of him.

Clinging to him, Sansa inexpertly tried to meet his pace, while her entire body begged for his touch. Her breasts ached with need and so Sansa squeezed them, palming her sensitive nipples. Sandor grinned devilishly at her and then suddenly increased the urgency of his mouth and hips.

Waves of pleasure cascaded over her again and again as his manhood caressed a sweet spot deep inside, while a broad finger circled around a delicious spot just above her woman’s place. Sansa could no longer think, could scarcely breath, so overwhelmed was she, until a sudden spasm deep with her culminated in an overwhelming pleasure that wracked her body. 

Fisting the sheets beneath her, she didn’t even try to stifle her cries of pleasure.  Oh, she had never before experienced such a thing, so sweet and wonderful it was, and she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. As she reveled in the residual twinges of pleasure rippling through her, Sandor groaned loudly above her, a fine sheen of sweat covering his entire body as his movement became erratic. Trembling, he shouted out his pleasure and then Sansa felt his warm seed pulsing deep into her body.

Afterward, Sandor caught his breath and then pulled her on top of him, covering her open mouth with his wet one. They kissed for a long time, slowly and languidly exploring each other, the couple now laughing and playing at their lovemaking. A deep sense of contentment flowed over Sansa, and her eyelids grew heavy.

“Little bird, are you sleepy?”

She half nodded and snuggled down beside him. “Aren’t you?”

“Aye,” he nodded. That night Sandor took her into his arms, and for the first time since their marriage, he rested his cheek against her bare breast and cradled her in his arms with nothing between them but the night.


	10. The Next Day

A slight chill in the room awakened Sansa before dawn. Feeling the empty space beside her, she wondered where Sandor had gone, and stretching her limbs, she burrowed under the covers once more with a groan.

Her husband had made love to her throughout the night, and warm and sated, Sansa was unwilling to start the day just yet. Feeling as though she were being watched, she peeked through her lashes and saw Sandor sitting on the hearth, intently staring at her. When he caught sight of her, he straightened up and folded his hands.

Glancing around the room, she saw the table beside the bed was filled with various treats. _Oh, I must have dreadfully overslept. Mother would scold me awfully if she knew I laid sleeping while my husband sat waiting on me._

“Thank you for calling up our meal,” Sansa gingerly sat up, grasping the furs to her chest with a shy smile. “Forgive me, husband; I will have everything ready for you tomorrow, I promise.”

Smirking, Sandor silently devoured her with the same hungry gaze he wore the night before. “Don’t fret over it, little bird.”

All of the pleasurable things they did together came rushing back to her mind as he regarded her, and the memory spread a deep flush across her cheeks. Not knowing what else to do, Sansa smoothed down her curls and pinched her cheeks. “Were you watching me sleep?”

“Aye,” he rasped out a soft laugh. “I enjoy looking at you.”

His words pleased her greatly, though Sansa sensed things were different between them now, and it seemed their newfound intimacy brought a different sort of awkward silence between them _. Perhaps he is afraid I do not want him anymore._ Beckoning to him, she patted the space beside her with a welcoming smile.

Offering a tight smile in return, Sandor hurriedly moved beside her and anxiously ran his hands down his thighs. “Regret bedding Joff’s dog, little bird?”

His words confirmed her fear and cut straight to her heart. “Not one bit,” Sansa tilted his face to her as she brushed her mouth across his cheek. “I am very happy I did, and I am most pleased with you, husband.” She cleared her throat and whispered, “Perhaps later we can try it again?”

Startled, Sandor’s mouth twitched into a grin and he eagerly turned to meet her lips. They kissed that way for quite a while, and when Sandor pulled away, a deep frown settled on his brow. “Did I hurt you?”

“What do you mean?” Confused, Sansa looked down where his hand was tracing the deep purplish bruises blooming on her breasts.

Sansa caressed his stubbled cheek with a smile. “No, Sandor; I bruise quite easily, you recall. They are love marks, nothing more, and I quite enjoyed receiving them.”

His mouth twitched into a small smile once more as he allowed his calloused fingertips to trail down to the inside of her thigh. “And here?”

Softly she shook her head. “No, husband, you were very considerate.”

“I’ve never had a maid,” he started to explain with a shrug, gesturing to the sheets. “I thought mayhap I hurt you.”

She followed his gaze to the light sprinkling of maiden’s blood darkening the linen beneath her. “It is normal, Sandor, and my septa told me the amount varies from woman to woman,” she reassured him while anxiously rearranging the coverlets. “You must forgive my thoughtlessness, Sandor; a lady is supposed to take care of the matter before her lord husband awakens so as not to trouble him with such unpleasantries.”

“Bugger that; come here, woman,” Sandor settled her on his lap, stroking his hands over her body while kissing her neck and shoulder. It felt so good that Sansa closed her eyes and leaned into his touch with a contented sigh.

Snuggled down in his arms, a dark mindset took hold of the young woman. _Each new day is one day closer to the end of Father’s life,_ she bitterly shuddered, wrapping her arms around her husband tightly.

Seeming to read her thoughts, Sandor pulled her closer to him. “Hungry?”  He drew a plate from the table while still cradling her in his arms.

“Oh, yes, very,” she hurriedly responded.

Snorting, he popped a roll in his mouth and then held the plate out to her. “For breakfast, I meant to say.”

Blushing heatedly, she stammered through an incoherent explanation until he covered her mouth with another kiss. “Easy, lass,” he grinned wickedly at her and offered her a lemoncake.

“Pray, why are you dressed so early?” Sansa nibbled at the confection, all the while feeling very self-conscious, sitting fully nude on his lap.

Groaning, Sandor cursed under his breath and shook his head. “The king has called a thrice damned early meeting with his council this morning.” Swallowing, he rubbed his hands over her thighs soothingly. “You best get dressed after I leave. With Baelish sniffing around, I need to know you’ll be safe, so swear to me that you won’t open the door for anyone.”

Nodding quietly, she turned her face up to him. “Sandor, though it may cost me my new clothes, I must tell you that Shae heard from Tyrion that Taena is a spy for Cersei.”

“I know that, wife,” Sandor shrugged disinterestedly. “One of Baelish’s whores told me while I was gambling, thinking it would earn her some coin.”

Sansa bristled and wrinkled her nose at him. “Did you pay her for it?”

“Aye, and that is why I came back early yesterday-if you hadn’t been standing there naked I’d have broken her neck. You’ll get your gowns yet.”

A part of her longed to ask what he was planning on doing with the woman afterward, but Sansa felt it best not to ask for any more details. “Well, it all worked out for the best,” she allowed after a moment.

Sandor threw his head back and laughed long and hard. “Aye, you could say that. She got an eyeful, as did I, and mayhap she already told Cersei about it.”

Taking his hand, Sansa gazed up at him. “Please, I wish to say something before you leave for the day.”

“Yes?” He sat up, suddenly serious.

Though she knew it was dangerous, Sansa desperately wanted to see her father again. As she gazed into Sandor’s eyes, however, she realized she cared for him far too much to ask him to risk himself further, and the words stuck in her throat. “Forgive me, I have no right to ask,” she sighed.

“You’ve been awake a quarter of an hour and already you’ve apologized to me three times,” Sandor shook his head, the now familiar anger slowly returning to his eyes. “Just say what you need to say, little bird, and bugger your courtesies.”

“I want you to take me to Father again,” she confessed, biting her lip to hold back the bitter tears threatening her eyes. “And…and I don’t want you to go to brothels anymore.”

Heaving a deep sigh, Sandor shifted beneath her and gently took her chin into his hand. “I know, lass.” His jaw clenched tightly, and Sansa could tell the man was struggling for the right words. “I’ve gone to drink and gamble after hours most days, ever since I came here. Baelish’s spies are everywhere, and if I change my routine, it will cast suspicion over both of us.” After a few moments of silently looking into her eyes, he added quietly, “With things as they are, I can’t risk it, or you.”

“I know,” Sansa kissed him softly. “And I thank you for telling me. That is why I said I had no right to ask, Sandor, because I would not risk you, either-not for the world.”

A sharp knock on the door startled them. Cursing, Sandor grudgingly set her back on the bed and went to the door while Sansa hastily threw on her robe.

Tyrion’s squire Podrick stood in the doorway, red faced and nervous. “Lord Clegane?”

“What do you want?” Sandor barked, sizing him up. “The Imp send you here?”

“Yes, I have a message from Lord Tyrion, milord.”

Sandor snatched it from his hand and slammed the door. After he finished reading it, his eyes flickered up to Sansa before he crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the fire.

“Come,” Sansa took him by the hand and led him back into the bedroom. She suspected what Sandor needed, and surprisingly, she was willing to go along with it. Gathering up the bedding, she carefully folded it, smoothed it inside a clean blanket and tied it securely with her sash.

“Here,” she handed the bundle to him. “Take it; I admit I do not like it but if it will keep us together and safe,  I do not mind,” Sansa hurriedly added when he scowled at her. “It is for the both of us. You have already done so much and this is one thing I can do. Please, take it.”

Gritting his teeth, Sandor looked away, his eyes glittering with rage. “That shit Joffrey has gone too far, and so has Littlefucker,” he hissed. “After today, I’ll not have you subjected to this sort of thing, I swear it.”

Placing her hands on his arms, Sansa then kissed him softly and stroked his cheek. “Go to them, Sandor, and no matter what they say, remember that last night was for us and for us alone. I gave myself to you because I am in love with you, and come what may, no one can take that away from us.”

Choking sounds come from the back of his throat, and Sandor impetuously clung to her while burying his face in her hair. “Little bird,” he rasped, squeezing her close one last time before hurrying from the room.

Snuggling into his side of the bed, Sansa silently fell into prayer, thanking the old gods for bringing Sandor into her life and begging them to spare her father.

* * *

By midmorning, Sandor returned just as Shae finished pressing out the creases in her gown. The look of dark fury in his eyes set her nerves on edge as he took her by the arm. “Come Sansa; we need to make haste. Joffrey has announced his plans and he wants to see your face when he tells the court.”

“Sandor, what is it?” She whispered as he led her toward the throne room. "Did he kill Father?"

"No, not yet.

Sansa let out a sigh of relief; Sandor, however, looked wound as tight as a bowstring. _What has Joffrey done now?_

“You were right, wife; that fucking perverted old maester wanted the linens and after he inspected it, he announced our marriage sealed in the sight of the old gods and the Seven.”

“Thank the gods.”

“Not so fast,” he shook his head. “The Imp has married off his niece to the Martells. The queen will send her away before Stannis’s fleet attacks the city a fortnight hence.”

“What does that have to do with us?”

“Joffrey means to kill Ned and then send us to meet Tywin Lannister at Greywater Watch.”

Sansa’s mind whirled. Clutching his arm, she whispered, “Good gods, he thinks if you arrive as my husband with Lannister troops ready to take the castle by force that the north-and my brother-will surrender.”

“Easy, wife,” Sandor pulled her close.

"Joffey is not smart enough to come with this on his own; did Cersei put him up to this?"

"No."

"Lord Tywin?"

He shook his head and pulled her into an alcove. “Do you trust me?” Sandor whispered into her ear.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then put on your best face, smile pretty and chirp the words your septa taught you, understand? Tell Joffrey what he wants to hear.”

The old gods had eased their way so far, and Sansa had faith that they would see them though this crisis too. Steeling herself, Sansa smoothed her skirts, kissed her husband on the cheek and then nodded for Ser Barristan to open the doors.


	11. Joffrey's Plan

Sandor pulled her closer and brought his lips directly to her ear. “Follow my lead, little bird.” She nodded at him and then turned to Ser Barristan.

“They are waiting for you,” the old knight gravely warned. “No matter how distasteful it may be, for the sake of your father,  do as you’re bid, child.”

Something in his tone sent a shiver through Sansa. “I will, my lord.” Smoothing down her bodice, Sansa squeezed her husband’s arm and whispered a small prayer as the doors opened.

The throne room was empty, save for Lord Varys, Lord Baelish, Joffrey and the queen. Once the guards stepped aside, Sandor roughly grabbed her arm. Not knowing what else to do, Sansa passively allowed him to pull her toward the throne.

“Fight me!” Sandor hissed under his breath and then shouted, “Come on, _wife_ , best not make the king wait.” Squirming, Sansa struggled against him, knowing full well that he was using only a fraction of his strength.

Joffrey sniggered, and to her indignation the members of the Kingsguard followed suit.

“My lord, please!” Sansa cried out, determinedly bearing the indignity. “Please, your hurting me, please Ser!”

Snarling, Sandor let out a wicked laugh as he dragged her before the throne and then laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Kneel.”

Sansa watched Cersei uneasily glance toward Joffrey, whose fat wormy lips curled into a simpering grin. “Lady Clegane, you have kept your king waiting.”

“Beg pardons, Your Grace,” she bowed low before the throne. “It was my own thoughtlessness; I forgot my lord husband told me to be ready for him, and he was _educating_ me on my proper position.”

His eyes roved to the bruises on her neck, and Sansa knew the sadistic young man imagined it was the Hound’s cruelty, not his lovemaking, that left such marks. “Well struck, Dog,” the king smiled approvingly. “It will take some time to train your bitch, no doubt, especially one as daft as Lady Clegane, but as the son of the kennel masters, I am sure you are up for the challenge.”

Beside her, Sandor nodded tersely, the rage pouring off his hulking form as he glimpsed her way.

“Forgive me,” Sansa whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her.

“Kneeling and apologies won’t save you now, my lady," the king smirked. "Stand up. You're here to make amends for your brother's latest treasons. Hound, get her up.”

His body went rigid, and though his face was impassive, Sansa sensed her husband’s fury ascending to a frightening peak. _I must be brave and bear this well for both our sakes._ Sandor pulled her to her feet, steadying her before he gently pushed her away from him.

Petyr Baelish sidled forward and handed Joffrey a piece of parchment bearing the Lannister sigil.

"Using some vile sorcery, your brother took my Uncle Jaime prisoner and is now carrying him captive back to Winterfell.”

“Whatever my brother has done, I had no part in, Your Grace. I am loyal to the rightful heir of the Seven kingdoms.”

“Indeed,” he raised his eyebrow and glanced over at Sandor. “My dog will see you stay that way.”

“Surely a sortie can recover him, Your Grace,” Sandor offered quietly. “Robb Stark’s men are no match for Lord Tywin.”

“You would ask that the king’s greatfather go against an army of wargs?” Lord Baelish snorted. “It is said they feasted on the Lannister slain. Not even Gregor could hope to match them, for all your Clegane doggedness.”

The Spider rolled his eyes. “My dear Lady Clegane, these allegations have not been confirmed. Tell us: are the Starks capable of such sorcery?”

Outrage poured through her veins. _If only it were true that Robb had an army of direwolves; Father and I both would have been freed a long time ago, and Arya would not have been lost to us_. She could feel Joffrey’s murderous gaze, but Sansa kept her head bowed, not daring not raise her eyes or answer until the king addressed her.

 “You have nothing to say?" asked Joffrey.

"Forgive me but what sort of wife would I be to my lord husband if  I dared speak to my brother’s crimes against the Iron throne? I am loyal to my beloved husband, and to the rightful king of the Seven kingdoms.”

Joffrey smirked, fancying himself the man of whom she spoke. Her artful speech did not escape Cersei, however; and the queen’s eyes glittered, green and terrible and catlike, reminding Sansa of the lioness in her dream. “My son, Lady Clegane-“

“You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours,” Joffrey continued, ignoring her. “I command you to answer Lord Varys.”

 _Let them believe there is truth in my brother commanding an army of direwolves; perhaps it will give those that would harm us pause._ “I do not deny it, Lord Varys, and in fact, I have seen it myself,” Sansa lied, feigning distress by wringing her hands.

Outraged, Joffrey leapt to his feet. “I knew it! I've not forgotten how your monster savaged me."

Sansa could not hide the bitterness in her tone then; of the many atrocities she held against Joffrey, Lady’s death only second to taking her father captive. “That was Arya's wolf," she said. "Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway."

"I did not have the pleasure of killing your wolf; your father did," Joffrey laughed, the sound cruel and mirthless, though fear etched into his young face at her admission. "Killing your father will please me infinitely more.”

“As it pleases you, Your Grace,” she bowed once more, struggling to still her fury as she impatiently wondered how long it would take Joffrey to get to the point.

“Did you tell her I want you to meet my grandfather at Greywater Watch, Dog?”

From what she heard about the Lord of Casterly Rock at court, it seemed unlikely that he would risk attempting to take Howland Reed’s family seat merely for the sake of punishing her father and Robb. Cold fear settled in her stomach, and Sansa nervously glanced up at her husband.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sandor finally rasped low beside her.

“How do you like that, Lady Clegane?”

“If it pleases you then I am pleased, Your Grace,” Sansa forced her best smile.

“It will please me, you can depend on that,” he smirked and glanced over at Lord Baelish.  “Will you not ask why I want you there?”

“Do you not wish to secure the castle from Howland Reed for the Iron throne?”

“The castle? Hardly; no one is certain of its exact location, and anyone with any sense knows that is a fool’s errand. Besides, what care I for a murky Crannogman castle?”  Joffrey laughed contemptuously.  “Foolish, stupid girl! I said I wanted you to meet my grandfather there, not that he would take it.”

 _Good gods, the Neck is the first line of defense for the north_. Affecting an expression of confusion, Sansa shook her head. “I do not pretend to comprehend your meaning, Your Grace.” Beside her, Sandor growled under his breath.

“Dog, explain it to your insipid wife.”

“Conquering the Neck is key to an assault on the north,” Sandor answered, his voice flat. “The king means to take Winterfell for the Iron throne.”

 _The north remembers,_ Sansa reminded herself. _The Reeds, the Umbers, the Mormonts of Bear Island-all will rally around my family seat to keep Winterfell from falling into his hands. Joffrey’s fool heartedness will steadfastly unite the north against him._ Carefully she schooled her face into a look of utter defeat. “Your Grace, mercy, I beg-“

“An apt punishment for holding my uncle hostage!” Joffrey shrieked. “Winterfell will be mine, and the north will bleed for their treachery. Yes, my lady,” the king rubbed his hands together, gleefully reveling in her apparent misery, “I have set my sights on Winterfell, and you will do your part to make it so or I will have your head on a spike alongside your father.”

“Certainly, it will be an honor,” Sansa whispered, biting her tongue to force tears to her eyes.

Cersei’s eyes darted wildly toward Joffey, and Sansa heard her struggle to steady her voice as she curled her hand at her throat. “Your father, the Seven keep him, educated us all on the true barbaric nature of the northerners. The Crannogmen are sworn to protect the Neck and will fight to the death, to say nothing of the rest of the northerners, my son.”

“Perhaps consider an exchange, Your Grace: Lord Stark for Ser Jaime. After your uncle is secured by Lord Tywin, do with him what you will,” Varys quietly suggested.

“No! I will not be denied Eddard Stark’s head! He claimed I was not the rightful heir to the Iron throne!”

Lord Baelish clenched his jaw tightly, causing the vein at his temple to prominently stand out.  “As you know, I have a history with Catelyn Stark and would be glad to oversee the matter of Lord Eddard.”

 _The Mother save me, he wants my father dead so he can take my mother, and Winterfell._ Desperately she looked to Sandor, whose face twitched ominously.

“The fuck you will!” Sandor snarled out, the black rage in his eyes causing the members of the Kingsguard to shrink back from him. “I am Lady Sansa’s husband and I will see to her father. It is both my duty to King Joffrey and my right as her husband!”

Cersei anxiously watched the exchange and motioned to the Spider.

“Quite presumptuous, even for you, Lord Baelish,” Lord Varys turned to Littlefinger. “Lord Tyrion and the queen have already spoken of this to us at length. Maester Pycelle found Lady Clegane lawfully wedded and bedded to Sandor Clegane, and may I remind you that such is the excellency of His Grace that King Joffrey will uphold the statute. Once Robb Stark is defeated, it is the right of Lady Sansa’s husband to secure her family seat of Winterfell.”

Joffrey triumphantly crowed, “My dog sitting as the Warden of the North in Winterfell! Imagine Mother, _the Hound_ as Lord of Winterfell-it is too rich!”

Burying her face in her hands, Sansa bit her tongue to bring tears to her eyes.  Sandor tossed a handkerchief at her feet in response, the man resolutely refusing to meet her gaze as he did so.

Cersei turned to her son. “But what of Stannis Baratheon? Surely it is nearly impossible to spare the guards to assist Lord Clegane in removing Lord Eddard from the city before his assault.”

“Not impossible, Your Grace, but it might serve to incite fear among the common people to see such a prisoner spirited away by the king’s loyal bodyguard before the impending battle,” Lord Baelish fretted.

Joffrey fell to worrying at once, his face tightening as he glared at her.

Lord Varys cleared his throat. “Your Grace, if you announce Lord Eddard’s eminent death to the realm, it will bolster morale before Stannis Baratheon arrives, and after Ser Jaime is secured, Sandor Clegane will loyally see your orders followed through.”

Frowning, Cersei began, “My son, perhaps it would be best to consult with your-“

“No, Mother, no: Lord Varys speaks rightly: as king is my duty to uphold the laws of the Seven Kingdoms and his solution fits my needs quite well,” he laughed openly in Sansa’s face. “So let it be done. Dog, I command you and Lady Clegane to depart for the Neck with Lord Stark in a sennight. You will execute him as soon as my uncle is with my grandfather and send me his head.”

Sandor let out a low threatening laugh. “I serve at the pleasure of the king.”

“It is settled then,” Joffrey clapped his hands as he beamed at the court. “Dog, remove the traitor’s daughter from my presence at once.”

* * *

Sansa could scarcely catch her breath at the altogether unexpected turn of events, and it was with great difficulty that she kept up her tears as Sandor hauled her back to their rooms.

Once inside, she smiled brightly and pulled him into a tight embrace. “Just imagine, we will leave-“

Sandor placed his finger on her mouth and rasped into her ear. “Baelish and Varys have spies everywhere, little bird.”

Nodding, she tangled her hands in his hair and covered his mouth in a gentle kiss. “I am most grateful, husband, truly.”

He suddenly pulled away, his expression hard and unreadable.

Swallowing down her apprehension, Sansa looked into his eyes and waited for him to speak.

Gritting his teeth, he gripped her chin and hissed, “Is this your way of repaying me?”

Quietly she removed his hand from her face. “And how could I ever hope to repay you, Sandor?" Sansa allowed her fingers to inch under his tunic and daringly trailed her nails over the hard ridges of his abdomen and curved them under the waistband of his breeches. “With this?”

He drew a sharp breath at her touch.

“I swear to you that there is nothing that I have given you that is not given willingly and with affection.”

They stared at each other long and hard until Sandor finally rasped low, “Why did you say those words to me this morning?”

Knitting her brows, Sansa realized his implication. Why did she tell him that she was falling in love with him? Looking back, Sansa wasn’t rightly sure she could explain it herself. The words poured out of her, and though she knew he might take offense, Sansa had been unable to hold them in. _Perhaps it was the doing of the old gods,_ she mused; there was no doubt in her mind that they were answering her prayers. _Get her a dog, she’ll be happier for it,_ Robert had said, and indeed she was.

Knowing the way Sandor felt about the gods made Sansa decide to keep that part to herself, so instead she took him by the hand and softly answered, “As the months passed, you have become my safe place, the one place of comfort at the end of each miserable day spent at court. I have come to care for you very deeply, and that is how love begins. After last night, I was so happy that the words poured out of me, though after I feared you would not like it.”

“It’s what any man with half a brain would want to hear from you,” Sandor snorted at her with a shake of the head. “But I want the truth.”

Ignoring him, she continued, “It is the truth and I know you sense it. A dog can smell a lie, you once told me.”

Sandor lowered his eyes and nodded.

“I know it is difficult for you to accept, but my feelings have grown steadily stronger for you ever since we wed. I am even more drawn to you now and I find myself craving more of you. I long for your time, your touch, your affection. Is that so wrong?”

“No, little bird,” he bitterly turned away toward the bay windows overlooking the Blackwater rush.

“In time, I am certain that we will learn to trust  one another.”

“Time?” Sandor asked. “What makes you think we have time? Once we get your father north, your kingly brother will have my head, believe that.”

“No, I will not allow anyone to harm you, I swear it on our marriage,” she caressed the burned side of his face. A warm gentle breeze beckoned her toward the enclosed balcony; and taking him by the hand, she wordlessly led him outside.

“Look at how lovely the sunlight sparkles on the water,” Sansa pointed with a smile, hoping to steer him out from his dark thoughts. Grunting, he wrapped his arm around her waist, tentatively at first, and so she covered his hand with her own encouragingly.

“Bugger that, wife. Come here,” Sandor eagerly ran his hands over her hips and waist. She allowed him to lead to the chaise where she lay down beside him.

Curling into her back he reached around her and unlaced her gown, allowing her breasts to spill freely into his hands. They stayed that way, silently staring out at the water as he held her close. The pleasurable heat of their skins pressed enticingly together, the feel of his strong arms surrounding her, even the way the hair on his chest ticked her back, all carried her away from the miseries of their gilded cage.

So caught up in his touch was Sansa that she did not even realize Sandor had tossed aside his tunic and unlaced his breeches. “Everything about you feels so good,” she whispered and she heard him chuckle low in response. Carefully he nestled her against his chest while his other hand stroked even circles over the bare flesh of her inner thighs. The warmth emanating from his muscular build enveloped her, and Sansa sighed contentedly and leaned further into him.

His fingers dipped between her folds and encircled the sweet spot he found the night before, pulling a low moan from Sansa’s throat. Tightly she gripped his arms as he allowed the rough pad of his index finger to swirl tight circles there until she was soaked with arousal, and only then did he finally guide his manhood into her, thus teaching her a new position in which to love him.

As he pulled her leg over his thigh and thrust deep inside her, it vaguely came into Sansa’s mind that even with the tarpaulins, they were too exposed in their current location. “Sandor, let us go inside,” she whimpered in his ear and then turned over and wrapped her legs around him. With their bodies still joined, he lifted her into his arms and carried her into the solar.

Settling her onto the velvet sofa, Sandor loved her like he was a drowning man, and she his last breath of air. The Hound who had so fiercely claimed his rights to her in front of the king earlier touched the very deepest part of her soul with his passionate lovemaking, and Sansa knew then what must be done.

Afterward, she gently stroked his chest until he fell asleep, and then Sansa whispered her declarations of love to him. When he awakened at dusk, she insisted Sandor take her to the godswood.


	12. Building Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I brought you here because I wish to say my vows to you before the old gods willingly so that you will feel the sincerity of my commitment to you. By doing so, I hope that you will never again doubt my feelings. It will be a new beginning for us. What say you?”

_Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him._ Kneeling before the stump of the weirwood tree, Sansa prayed the old gods would allow her husband to feel her sincerity. After a few moments, she heard Sandor uncork his wineskin and take a long draw. “Praying for your father, aren't you?” He chuckled darkly. “Haven’t you learned by now that the queer northern gods don’t listen to you Starks?”

Stunned, her eyes darted to him angrily. “How can you say that?”

Sandor shook his head at her, his lips curling into a snarl. “Still a stupid little bird. You really think being married to me while your father languishes in the black cells is an answer to your prayers?”

There was no denying there were times it seemed that the gods had turned a deaf ear to her pleas, yet the events of late had proved that her prayers had not been in vain.  “I admit at times it seems difficult to believe, especially for one as cynical as you,” she icily replied, irritated that he seemed determined to crush what little hope she had left.

“Mayhap we are too far away from the so-called old gods to hear you,” Sandor absently commented, his eyes twinkling angrily. “And so they have left it to me to help the little bird.”

“I know why you do not believe in the gods.”

“Oh and why is that?”

“I know about your brother,” Sansa stammered, her anger giving way to alarm as his eyes narrowed at her.

“What do you think you know?” His expression was unreadable but his eyes glimmered as he spoke.

“Lord Baelish told me that he was the one who injured you.”

Swiftly Sandor was on his feet, yanking her close to his chest. “I’ve never told anyone! How in bloody hells does he know that?”

Wriggling away from him, she shook her head. “I do not know.”

He fell into a brooding silence, the burned side of his face twitching sharply as he squatted before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing.

“Sansa, if you ever tell anyone-your sister, your father, any of them...”

 “I won’t,” Sansa whispered. “I promise.”

 “If you ever tell anyone,” he finished, “I’ll-”

“You’ll kill me,” she finished, boldly staring into his eyes. Did he hope to scare her simply because she admitted to knowing the origin of his scars? His young life had been full of misery, she had no doubt; it was no wonder that his heart was so hardened. Suddenly Sansa felt sorry for him, and the anger and fear she felt went away as quickly as it came over her.

Sandor saw the change in her demeanor. Taken aback, he stepped away from her.

Tentatively reaching for his arm, she sadly commented, “Lord Baelish already warned me that you would say such.”

He shook his head as if to clear his head. “And did you believe him?”

“That matters not. You won’t hurt me,” her voice quivered slightly.

“No, little bird, I won’t hurt you,” Sandor sardonically muttered, gripping his fists at his sides and slumping down onto a rock beside her.

“Sandor, I am truly grateful to you, for all you have done,” Sansa moved between his legs, kneeling before him and resting her hands on his knees.

Startled, he started to move away but she held him firmly in place. “Though the gods have not always answered my prayers in a manner in which I would have preferred, it is undeniable that what has occurred today is their doing.”

Grunting, he shifted beneath her. Leaning in closer, Sansa cupped his cheeks in her hands and tilted his face toward her. “I speak of both the love we have made and of the King’s decision.”

“Is it love that we have made, little bird, just like in your knights and fair maiden tales, your song about Florian and his cunt? Or are you just fucking me to appease the dog that risks life and limb for you and greedily takes whatever scraps you offer him?”

Biting her lip, Sansa willed herself not to cry at his harsh words. His eyes were so bitter, so resigned; she hated to see him thus and was at a loss as to how to reach him. Silently Sansa entreated the gods and then cautiously said, “Sandor, you are not a dog, you are my husband. I will not hear you refer to yourself as such in a derogatory way.”

Timidly Sansa drew up on her knees and inclined her face to him. “It is love that we have made, Sandor…can you not feel it in your heart? Is it not different than what you had at the brothels?”

Averting his eyes, Sandor shrugged and gave a slight nod.

“I know it is, I can feel it in the way you love me,” she whispered against his lips before kissing him tenderly. “Please understand, my acknowledging the part the gods have played is not meant to diminish you or the efforts you have made to secure our safety.”

Sandor raised his eyebrow at her. “Then why are we here?”

“I brought you here because I wish to say my vows to you before the old gods willingly so that you will feel the sincerity of my commitment to you. By doing so, I hope that you will never again doubt my feelings. It will be a new beginning for us. What say you?”

A deep frown etched his face as he stared into her eyes. “Aye, little bird, go ahead and say your vows.”

Sansa’s heart skipped a beat. “Will you not say them as well?”

“I meant them the first time,” Sandor laughed emptily, refusing to meet her eyes. “Why else do you think I went along with it? If I didn’t, I would have cut through that little shit and his mother and lit out of here, believe that.”

Astounded by his admission, Sansa sank back on her heels, somewhat defeated and yet strangly exhilarated.

“A dog will never lie to you, remember?” Sandor rasped quietly. “But I would not hold you to your vows. Your brother can annul the union as soon as we return north. I won’t tell them I’ve ruined you and whichever dense highborn fuck you eventually marry won’t know the difference, I’ll wager.”

His words brought a crushing pain to her chest, and the bitterness in his eyes nearly took her breath away. _He doesn’t think he is worthy of being my husband. He would free me to make a more advantageous match once we return home._

Summoning her courage, she gently took his face in her hands once more. “I will never consent to an annulment, nor do I wish it. You and I will return north as husband and wife, and we will remain such so as long as you will have me. We may have made a child together today, Sandor, and gods willing, we will have a large family in the future.”

His eyes widened as Sandor leaned in closer to her. “Little bird, think on it now-think of what you are saying, what you will give up if you stay bound to me-“

“Please, let me finish,” Sansa gently touched the tip of her fingers to his lips. “I want no other husband than you, and no other man as the father of my children. Would you not prefer that we are honestly able to tell our sons and daughters that our commitment to each other was born out of affection rather than the result of some monster king forcing us to wed as punishment?”

Sniffing, Sandor nodded at her, his expression at once doubtful, incredulous and hopeful. “Aye, I would at that.”

Her daring wavered slightly, so overwhelmed she was at his admission. Sansa stood up and held out her hand to him which he readily took into his own. “Then let us say our vows to each other for true. Will you take me as your wife?”

With surprising delicacy, the huge man knelt beside her and held her hands. “Little bird, I am yours as you are mine from this day to the end of my days.”

Sansa kissed each of his hands tenderly. “Sandor, I am yours as you are mine from this day to the end of my days.”

“Come here, wife,” he growled low and lifted her into his arms, crushing her lips against his own. “Let’s get back to our rooms.”

Sandor had been given leave of his duties while preparations were made for Princess Myrcella’s departure.  The couple took advantage of their time together and stayed in bed the rest of the night and the following day as well.  Tenderly they made love, continuing their explorations of each other and kissing until Sansa’s lips and skin were rubbed tender from his beard. Afterward, they contentedly embraced one another, speaking in hushed tones of their hopes for their future life in the north.

“Why do you think Baelish told you and your sister about Gregor?” Sandor asked as he rhythmically ran his fingers through her hair.

Catlike, Sansa rubbed her face against the coarse hairs covering his chest. “To frighten us I suppose, in hopes that we would not trust you and instead turn to him.”

“I’ll find out who bloody told him that, if it is the last thing I do,” he rasped menacingly, the sound sending a corresponding shiver through her body.

“Tell me what happened, Sandor. I wish to hear it from you.”

He sighed. “I was six, maybe seven. A woodcarver set up shop in the village under my father’s keep, and to buy favor he sent us gifts. The old man made marvelous toys. I don’t remember what I got, but it was Gregor’s gift I wanted. A wooden knight, all painted up, every joint pegged separate and fixed with strings so you could make him fight. Gregor is five years older than me, the toy was nothing to him. He was already a squire. So I took his knight. I was scared all the while, and true enough, he found me.”

Sansa choked down her horror and turned to face him. “He hurt you before?”

“Aye he did, many a time. Gregor never said a word, just picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed. It took three grown men to drag him off me.”

Sansa raised up on her elbow and began caressing the rivulets of the burned side of his face, wondering what words she could possibly offer to assuage his suffering. Finally, Sansa quietly said,  “I am so very sorry. The gods will see he pays for his cruelty, Sandor.”

Smirking, Sandor turned away from her. “My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Arise, Ser Gregor.’ The gods care nothing for the likes of me, girl.”

“Perhaps they were waiting to show themselves to you, waiting to see how you would turn out before they revealed themselves. We cannot understand their ways.”

“No more talk of the gods, Sansa. Now, we eat.” Sandor got out of bed and summoned the maid to bring their meal.

Sansa sat perched on his lap, feeding him and herself by turns all the while wondering what to say to him.

Her husband seemed relieved after he told her what happened, and some of the brooding darkness left his countenance as Sandor watched her choose the best portions for him.

“Speak up, little bird. Tell me what is bringing a frown to your pretty face.”

She worried her lip for a moment. “Can you truly not see the hand of the gods in Joffrey’s order to go north?”

Heaving a sigh, he settled her in the chair beside him. “You want me to say that I do?”

“I want you to speak the truth as you always do.”

“The truth is: I don’t know.”

Nodding, she swallowed hard. A knock on the door startled them both.

“What is it?” Sandor snarled low as he jerked the door open. “I’m not on duty.”

“The king has orders for you and your lady, Lord Clegane,” Podrick answered. “Here is the message.”

Frowning, Sandor glanced over it. “Here boy, for your trouble,” he absently handed Podrick a handful of coin.

“What is it, Sandor?”

“Joffrey wants us to meet with your father.”

“Why?”

“He wants you to convince Lord Eddard to tell the northerners that the Starks’ allegiance is with the Iron throne, thus making passage easier for the Baratheon troops before they are ambushed by the Lannister army.”


	13. A Smart Little Bird

“My father will never go along with that,” Sansa wrung her hands and began pacing the room. “I cannot ask him to openly oppose Robb and Mother. Even if Joffrey was not at war with my family, Father would still not consent to so blatant a lie.”

Shaking his head, Sandor snorted ruefully. “He’s a lord, isn’t he? Comes with the territory.”

“It is not in his nature,” Sansa frowned at him, “and no matter what you think, Sandor, I know my own father.  I cannot ask him to be less than he is.”

“Aye that’s how Ned got in this mess to begin with, you best believe, holding to his buggering honor. Bloody hells, if he expects us to go north, he’d better go along with it and so had you.”

Quietly Sandor moved toward the door and pressed his ear against the frame. His face twisted into a scowl, and he markedly pointed at the door _. Spies daring to listen right outside our private chambers-will there never be an end to this cruelty?_ Turning away from Sandor, Sansa stared out at the Blackwater and prayed to herself.

Her father was not a man to turn his back on his honor, no matter the cost, and grudgingly she admitted to herself that there was at least that much truth in her husband’s snarky words. He was the most honest man she had ever known, and even if it meant his life, Sansa doubted he would go along with a lie as terrible as this one _. I learned how to die a long time ago,_ his words whispered in her ear, bringing a fresh surge of tears to her eyes.  

Indignantly Sansa blinked them away. “It is an impossible thing you are asking of me.”

“No one is saying Ned should actually follow through, just make Joff believe that he will,” Sandor crossed the room, pulled her tight against his chest and rasped into her ear.

Shuddering, Sansa leaned against him.

“Sansa, come here little bird,” Sandor rasped quietly, caressing her hair as he settled her into his lap.

His warm, tender touch let loose her long suppressed tears, and Sansa finally gave vent to the fear, uncertainty, and anxiety she so carefully buried deep within her heart. Sobbing, she burrowed her face in her husband’s tunic, clinging to him with all her might.

“You’re alright now, little bird; you’re alright,” Sandor whispered soothingly into her crown. “The wolf in you will see you through, girl, just as it always has.”

Puzzled, Sansa pulled away to look at him. _Is he mocking me?_ Sandor’s deep gray eyes softened as they met her own, and gently he took out a handkerchief and dabbed her cheeks.

“You-you think I am strong, like a wolf?”

“Aye, lass, I do. You have the blood of the wolf. I’ve seen it in you since the day Robert killed your pet.”

“Truly?” Sansa sniffled. “You aren’t just saying that to make me feel better?”

Sandor laughed, the sound as harsh as steel scraping against stone, and yet somehow comforting to her as well. “Who do you take me for, the bloody flowers knight?”

Watching his eyes twinkle, Sansa could not help but laugh in spite of herself, for admittedly it was a wholly ridiculous notion. Sandor would never lie to her, she knew, even if would spare her feelings and she was grateful for it, even though it often hurt her to hear.

“It doesn’t make you weak to cry, wife.” Sheepishly Sandor looked away as he spoke, instead focusing on tracing the curve of her cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. The memory of the many times his tears wetted her night gown when he thought her asleep came rushing back to her. Reaching up to his face, Sansa caressed his cheek before softly kissing him.

“No, it most certainly does not, husband. I didn't think you would believe in the bond we have with our wolves since such is a gift from the old gods.”

“I said I didn’t know if I believed or not,” Sandor tipped her chin up to him. “I am a Westerman, and we don’t have such things. And that’s nothing to say about what you should believe, wife.”

“You don’t mind my faith?”

“I can’t say I like it,” Sandor shrugged. “No harm in it, though, as long as you act on your prayers. Don’t just wait for some buggering miracle like so many fools do.”

“Oh, I don’t do that, Sandor. I have learned better.”

“I know you have, lass, and a hard lesson it is.” His face turned dark and brooding once more. Fortified by her husband’s confidence, an idea took hold of her mind.

 _Back home, Father always seemed to know when I was lying._ He always said that a three eyed crow alerted him, but it wasn’t until her eleventh nameday that Sansa realized her habit of fidgeting with her sleeves when she fibbed is what truly gave her away.

When Sansa finally confessed to him, his gray eyes, so like her husband’s, sparkled as he laughed long and hard.  Finally when he sobered up, he held her in his arms and admitted that each of the children had certain telling behaviors that alerted him to an untruth, not just her. She had been greatly relieved to learn that there wasn’t a mystical crow spying on her, but still the experience left her wary of telling untruths to him.

 _If there was a way to let Father know it was a ruse, he might go along with it; but how? With all the guards surrounding him, it would be unthinkable to risk voicing it outright; it is not safe to speak of such things even here. If I catch his eye and deliberately play with my sleeves, perhaps he will understand my meaning._ The more she thought on it, the better she liked the strategy.

“Sandor, I will make Father understand that he must agree to this,” she murmured into his neck. “I have a way of making him see; let us pray that it works.”

“Nothing too obvious, I hope?” Sandor whispered while staring at her warily. “You have a lot of tells, girl. Might be the guards will recognize them.”

“I know, and I will be most careful, dearest,” the endearment slipped out, and Sansa gasped and raised her hand to her mouth. To her surprise Sandor did not look annoyed; instead he seemed both startled and pleased at her wording. Smiling shyly, Sansa placed her lips against his ear, “When I was a child, Father always knew when I wasn’t telling the truth because I played with the sleeves of my gown as I spoke.”

Chuckling, he nodded. “A smart little bird you are. Do it, then.” More loudly, Sandor barked, “Dress now; we have orders to meet Meryn in the godswood.”

“Yes, husband,” Sansa dutifully answered and then drew his ear to her lips once more, “Bringing him there to meet with me is enough to arouse his suspicion.”

“Aye,” his lips curled into a grin. “Why do you think I suggested it?”

“You-you have been working with Father on a plan, haven’t you?” Sansa gasped before a triumphant smile lit up her face. Ever since the day she visited him in the black cells, Sansa suspected as much and she felt most accomplished that she managed to discover it despite Sandor’s efforts at subterfuge. “Have you a plan?”

Sandor raised his finger to his lips, his face twitching sharply as he looked at her. “Trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Good, no more talk, then,” Sandor kissed her soundly and then gently pushed her toward the washbasin.

“What would you like for the afternoon meal? I’ll order it directly so it will be ready for our return.”

“After we visit your father, I am on duty to escort the royal family to see of Princess Myrcella.”

“Oh, yes, she leaves for Dorne today,” Sansa smiled softly as she bathed. “I completely forgot about it. Myrcella is most nervous about meeting her intended, though by all accounts he is a very good young man. A sennight ago, she and I went for a walk and she asked me very discreetly about how I was adjusting to my own ‘arranged marriage,’ as she called it.”

“And what did you tell her?” Sandor asked curiously, his eyes roaming her body while two fingers caressed the length of a lock of her hair. “Did you tell her marrying a dog is far different than the highborn her uncle chose for her?

“No, silly,” she chided, kissing his hand. “I told her to give it time. She would soon learn her husband, as he would learn her, and that spending time with him can be very pleasant indeed.”

Sandor chuckled darkly, the seductive sound raising the color in her cheeks. Even after the many intimate moments they shared, her husband could still make her blush with just the sound of his voice. “So that is the way of it, eh?” He grinned wickedly at her and nuzzled his face between her breasts. “Well then, just for that, I’ll show you something far more than pleasant later, believe that.”

“Oh, Sandor I did not mean to imply-“

He kissed each of her nipples and then laughed long and hard at her. “Don’t fret, little bird. Dress.”

* * *

Willing herself to remain calm, Sansa drew slow deep breaths as she waited for her father. Beside her, Sandor stood tall and imposing, his face impassive, silently daring anyone to come closer to them. The clanging of chains alerted them to Ned’s appearance in the godswood.

“Father!” Sansa rushed to him, heedless to Sandor’s growls of protest and Meryn’s jeering taunts. He looked thinner when she last saw him. Some attempt had been made to clean him up, she noted, though his beard was unruly and his clothing in rags. “Are you hurt? Ill?”

“No, Lemoncake,” his voice gravelly from lack of use. “I am pleased to see you are most well. Look at the roses blooming in your cheeks.” Ned carefully raised his hand to her face and tenderly ran the back of his index finger over her face.

The gentleness of his touch instantly brought tears to her eyes, and Sansa quickly turned away. “Let us sit on this bench and enjoy the fine sea breeze; what say you?”

Ned frowned slightly and glanced at Sandor, who was busyily engaging Meryn in mindless speculation about Stannis’ preferred battle tactics.

“Father, we do not have much time.”

Ned nodded curtly. “Has Clegane been treating you well?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Why have the Lannisters gone to this trouble, lass? Speak plainly.”

“Father, it is my pleasure to tell you that we are to go north-you and me and Sandor. Isn’t it exciting?” Her face pulled into a taut smile, unnatural and yet winning, and Ned eyed her curiously. “The king wishes for us to meet his grandfather at Greywater Watch.”

“Go on,” her father gritted his teeth, leaning closer to her.

Pointedly Sansa willed him to follow her eyes down to her sleeves as she began toying with the lace trimming the hem. “As a man of great honor, I know you will certainly want to support the king to whom my husband’s house has sworn fealty. It is your duty, is it not?”

Ned remained silent as he distractedly watched her animatedly trifling with the material.

“Once we arrive, it is me and Sandor’s wish that you pledge your support to the northern lords. I know this is a great thing to ask of you, Father, but just imagine how nice it will be for the Seven kingdoms to be united once more!”

Swallowing hard, Sansa anxiously watched his face fall in disappointment as he regarded her. “Lemoncake, I fear you do not understand the intricacies of the king’s plan. You were not brought up to suspect such deception.”

“I mean no disrespect, dearest Father, but it vexes me to hear you say such,” Sansa bit her lip and met his eyes before resuming her fidgeting.  “I remember my lessons with Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane. I understand most everything, you must believe me.”

Clearly confused, Ned scowled at her, a deep crease forming above the bridge of his nose. His eyes settled on her hands until finally he sat up straight with a gleam in his eye.

Noticing his changed demeanor, Sansa hastily added, “Yes, Father, perhaps you do not understand how important your willingness to go along with the king’s idea is; please Father, I beg of you: say that you will and all will go well with you, and Sandor and me as well. We will all return north together. The king has given his word.”

Ned leaned forward and placed his hands on her wrists, stilling her movement. “I do understand, lass, I do,” he smiled knowingly at her and then kissed her wrists.

Meryn stepped closer. “You’d better, Stark, if you know what’s best. If the king had given your daughter to me, this would have a very different outcome.”

She felt her father stiffen indignantly as he pulled away from her.

Sandor roared out a laugh, forced and cruel, and Meryn soon joined in.

Feigning distress, Sansa wrung her hands until Ned once again took them in his own. “I will do as you ask, Sansa. You are my oldest daughter, the first girl born to the Starks since my sister, and I gods save me, I cannot deny you.”

Meryn smirked at them and started to pull him away from her.

“Oh, thank you, Father!” Sansa clung to him desperately and then nervously glanced around her. “I-I have a personal question to ask of you, one that a daughter should never ask her father, but since Mother is gone I am quite alone,” she dabbed away her forced tears. Turning her face up to Sandor pleadingly, she whispered, “Please husband, would you consent to us having a moment in private? I needs consult my father on a most private matter.”

“And what would that be, _sweet wife_?” He sneered at her. “Tell me.” Meryn chuckled and slapped him on the back.

“It is regarding my, um, duties as a wife,” Sansa held her breath so she would flush red.

Sandor leaned in close, “Hmm, well, make it quick.” Before she could reply, he took Meryn by the arm and roughly added, “Come toad, let’s make a friendly wager on the battle while Stark educates his daughter.”

When Meryn started to protest, Sandor bared his teeth. “A dog can smell a lie. I can hear what they are saying even if you cannot. Come.” Not waiting for his answer, Sandor veritable dragged the man further away and then distracted him by opening a large pouch of coin.

Ned pressed his nose into her hair as they embraced. “Daughter, I understood you, so fret not.”

“I prayed to the gods that you would,” Sansa choked out.

“You do me proud, child; never doubt that.”

Before they could speak further, Meryn returned and hauled Ned up by the arm. “No more family time, Stark.”

“I love you, Father. Thank you so much for your help.”

“I’m doing it to end the war, Sansa, not for Clegane,” Ned grumbled, the twinkle in his eye betraying his resigned tone. “We’ll speak of this again, do you hear me?”

“Oh!” Sansa cried, burying her face in her hands. Meryn laughed openly at her and then yanked her Father back toward the direction of the castle.

When they were alone once more, Sansa took in a deep sigh of relief. Sandor rested his hands on her shoulders, the silence lying heavily between them.

Without a word, Sansa smiled as she took his hand and kissed it softly, and his eyes glittered in recognition. Grinning, Sandor gently helped her to her feet and led her back to the castle. “A smart little bird you are, wife,” he muttered, kissing her tenderly before leaving their rooms for duty.


	14. Myrcella's Departure

Shae drew Sansa a lavender bath and put away her new wardrobe while Sandor received duty instructions from Ser Barristan outside. After the old knight finished briefing him, Sandor joined them in the solar.

Taking her husband by the hand, she led him into their bedroom. “My new clothing came,” Sansa nodded to the large packages Shae was unwrapping. “Everything is so very beautiful, thank you. Help me with this, please.”

A deep frown furrowed his brow. “I’ll handle that seamstress later.”

The tumult of the street filtered through the balcony doors. “I am surprised the king does not expect me to attend Myrcella’s departure,” Sansa shrugged out of the last of her clothing and sunk down into the water with a contented sigh.

Grunting, Sandor sat on the bench next to the tub and glided the whetstone over the blade of his longsword. “He believes you too injured to accompany them. That I beat you into submission.”

Sansa had grown accustomed to seeing him perform this part of his preparations for duty, and yet somehow today his manner made her ill at ease. “A lie?” She jeered, hoping to draw him out. “How unlike you.”

“Bugger that. Support for Stannis is beginning to spread,” Sandor remarked darkly as he fastened on his heavy armor. “I won’t risk you going. That little shit can believe whatever he wants.”

Part of Sansa wished she could attend. She liked Myrcella immensely but Sandor had not assented to her leaving the Red Keep for a sennight, not even with him.

The young woman bathed and washed her hair, all the while worriedly taking note of her husband’s growing agitation. “Do you think there will be trouble today?  Shae said Tyrion sent Bronn and his men into the city to clear out the resistance.”

He shrugged as he helped her rinse her hair.

“So long as Joffrey continues to mistreat his subjects, the conditions in the capital will continue to deteriorate. The Imp’s runt of a sellsword bashing in a few heads won’t improve the people’s opinion of the king any.”

Fumbling with the straps on his armor, Sandor cursed under his breath and threw up his hands.

“Yes, you are right. Here, I am finished,” she stood, wrapping her dressing gown securely. “Let me help you.”

“Girl-“

“I learned from helping my brothers, Sandor. I believe you’ll find me a satisfactory squire.”

Sighing, Sandor meekly submitted to her ministrations. “You're the prettiest one I've ever seen, believe that. Don’t open the door, Sansa. Promise me.”

Gently she knelt before him and began fastening the straps on his greaves. “I won’t, I promise.”

Stilling her movements, Sandor held her hands firmly and stared at her intensely. It felt as though the weight of his words fell on her shoulders as she returned his gaze but Sansa dared not look away.

“Swear it.”

“I swear to you, husband,” she tilted his head down and kissed him. “You admitted you think me a smart little bird. You must trust me now.”

Chuckling, he nodded.

“I would not have you call me stupid anymore, Sandor,” Sansa went on, settling herself on his lap and fastening his pauldrons.

“Sansa," Sandor began sheepishly, "I meant you were stupid for not using your smarts and instead falling back on those damnable lessons your septa taught you.”

“Those lessons have served me well here. Nevertheless, Joffrey has always called me stupid, and I do not wish for you to treat me as he would. You are a far better man and it is beneath you.”

His eyes shifted away from her as he nodded slowly. “Aye, as you say, wife.”

“Thank you,” she needled his stomach until his mouth twitched into a small smile. After she kissed him, Sansa stepped back to examine her handiwork.  “There, I am finished.”

Sandor reached for her, gently caressing her cheek as he wistfully stared at her. “Gods but you are beauty. Honey sweet, and a proper lady.”

Sansa briefly thought his expression darkly familiar to when he stood beside her in the throne room the day Joffrey ordered them wed. Finally, he grudging moved away from her.

“I’ll send Shae to sit with you after a while.”

“Alright, I will be waiting for you.”

Unexpectedly Sandor lifted her into his arms and buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. The cold metal of his armor chilled her skin, and shivering, she laughed softly into his neck as she ran her hands through his hair.

“Do not fret. I will pray for you, husband.”

Sandor held her close for several long moments before he gently set her back on her feet. “You do that, little bird,” he rasped. “Your so-called gods wouldn’t listen to the likes of me. Soon we’ll leave this bloody place.”

Something in his manner deeply saddened her. “When, do you think?”

“Day after tomorrow. Start gathering our belongings, lass. Stannis’ fleet will be here in a sennight.”

“Yes, of course. I will have our things ready.”

Afterward she called for Shae and the two women began wrapping seldom used clothing for travel. The door of her solar swung open, and in walked Ser Meryn and Ser Preston Greenfield.

“What do you think you are doing?” Shae defiantly positioned herself between the knights and Sansa, resting her hands on her hips. “Lord Clegane will kill you both for this intrusion.”

“We’re here on orders of the king, so step aside, wench,” Ser Meryn sneered at her. “Myrcella begged to see you, Lady Clegane, and the queen regent persuaded King Joffrey to indulge her.”

“A moment, please, so that I may dress appropriately,” Sansa waved her hand to Shae. “Please, help me choose a gown, Shae.”

“Yes, my lady,” Shae cast a final glare their direction.

Hurriedly she closed and locked the bedroom door. “I must go with them, Shae,” Sansa scribbled out a note on parchment and folded it into a small square. “Would you deliver this message to Sandor?”

“Yes, my lady,” Shae whispered, tucking it into her bodice. “Be careful, child, the people are most agitated over the lack of food.”

“But that is the king’s doing. Surely, they do not think-“

“Lady Sansa, listen to me: your horse eats better than their children. They have suffered  a want I do not think you can comprehend. Do not underestimate their outrage, please.”

The cloak bearing the sigil of three dogs on a yellow field lay on her bed. Sansa placed it around her shoulders, feeling stronger for wearing her husband’s sigil. “I will, Shae, thank you. Hopefully this will remind both the knights and the smallfolk to whom I belong.” Squaring her shoulders, Sansa rejoined the knights.

* * *

Starving smallfolk clamored outside the castle walls, begging the king to release the surpluses in the store houses. Other voices shouted Joffrey was not the rightful heir. Sansa kept her eyes downcast as the knights cleared a path for her on the dirty streets winding toward the harbor.

“Lady Sansa!” Myrcella cried, leaving her place beside her mother and running toward her when they reached the shore. Sansa put on her best smile and embraced the princess while her eyes flickered toward her husband. Sandor stood stone faced beside the king, fury pouring off of his heavily muscled frame. Cersei did not seem to notice, though. Even Tyrion shrunk away from him.

“I am so glad you made it. I would not have felt right leaving without saying goodbye.”

“Princess, I am most honored by your regard,” Sansa curtseyed low. “May the gods bless and keep you.”

“And you, Lady Clegane,” Myrcella warmly embraced her. “I hope we will meet again.”

“As do I, Princess Myrcella.”

“Perhaps one day we will both return to Winterfell.” Cersei set her jaw and forced a smile. “Now I can leave, Mother,” Myrcella tearfully took Cersei by the hand. “Thank you for allowing me this last request.” The queen led her toward the ship where Ser Arys Oakheart awaited her as the septon waved a smoldering thurible to and fro.

Beside her, Prince Tommen began crying in earnest as his sister boarded ship, and in so doing the young boy earned Joffrey’s derision.  Sansa desperately wanted to comfort the gentle child but knew better than to act on it.

“Princes don’t cry. Come, dog,” he glared at Sansa as he stalked past.

Sandor malevolently stared after the king, hesitating a moment before his wife. “Stay close to me, little bird,” he whispered before following Joffrey.

High above them, the crowd began calling blessings upon the king. Nervously Sansa glanced around her, taking note of Tyrion’s terse expression. Tension crackled in the air, and before long the people began begging for food.

“Take the prince back to the keep, now,” he hissed at the septa. Myrcella’s handmaidens remained by Sansa’s side, and together they scrambled to keep up with Sandor’s hastened stride.

The crown surged forth, hemming them in as a cowpie struck Joffrey squarely in the face.

“Kill them! Kill them all!” Joffrey shrieked as Sandor tucked him under his arm and dragged him along, furiously hacking his way through the crowd. Her husband stood head and shoulders above most of the men, and Sansa saw him anxiously scanning the crowd for her as he passed Joffrey off to Ser Meryn.

“Sandor!” Sansa cried out as three men hemmed her in, her voice drowned out by the ensuing fray. Sandor’s face transformed into a frightening rage as he slashed his way toward her. He roared out her name as their eyes met, and Sansa called to him again and ran as the men gave chase.

Her eyes darting wildly about her, Sansa ducked into the threshing room, hoping Sandor would follow her. The three men soon surrounded her, their eyes filled with hate.

“Have you ever been fucked, little girl?” The man with garlicky breath snarled, yanking down the bodice of her gown.

Mustering all her strength, Sansa slapped him soundly across the face. “How dare you harass me! I am a woman wedded.”

“You bitch!” The man slapped her in return, sending her sprawling to the ground.

 _Father used to tell the boys to stay on their feet, no matter what. The man who falls is the man who dies._ Scrambling to her feet, Sansa jerked the cloak from her shoulders and held it out. “Do you not recognize the sigil on my cloak?

“What the fuck do I care for highborns?” He blinked dumbly. “I don’t know this sigil.”

“House Clegane of the Westerlands. I am married to Lord Sandor Clegane.”

The second man shrugged. “And who the fuck is that?”

“The Hound, you buggering bastard!” Sandor roared, his longsword crashing down  upon the man, severing the man in two. A fine spray of blood covered him, but in his fury he did not even seem to notice.

 _Knights are for killing_ , his voice echoed in her ears. Sansa recoiled in horror as Sandor caught the fleeing peasant, easily drawing his blade across his throat. His eyes glittering in a rage, he tossed the lifeless body aside before advancing on the last man standing.

 _He looks like a rabid dog._ The brutal efficiency of the Hound both frightened and intrigued the young woman. Fear of what Sandor had become clawed at her throat, and gasping, Sansa fought to steady her breathing. Squeezing her eyes closed, Sansa buried her face in her cloak and prayed.

The peasant shrieked, and briefly she opened her eyes to see her husband lifting him from the ground with one hand.

 “Thought you would rape my wife, did you?” Sandor stared into the frightened man’s eyes, his lips curling into an evil grin.

“Wait-“ the man pleaded.

“Turn away, little bird,” Sandor muttered before thrusting his fighting knife into the man’s gut. After he threw the man to the ground, the Hound turned away and draw a deep breath, the man struggling to still his fury before he turned to face her.

 _He sees that I am afraid of him._ Trembling, she held out her arms to him like a child.

“You’re alright now, little bird, you’re alright,” Sandor rasped softly, covering her in his cloak.

Sobbing, she leaned into him. “I heard Tyrion call for Ser Preston to look for me, but Joffrey would not consent-”

“Shh, it’s alright,” Sandor easily lifted her into his arms. “I’ve got you. We’re going back to our rooms.”

Tyrion anxiously approached them as Sandor carried her through the courtyard. “Are you hurt, my lady?”

“The little bird is bleeding,”  Sandor jerked her away from him. “I’m taking her back to our rooms and see to that cut.”

Tyrion looked as though he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Just then, Ser Preston came running up, interrupting them. “You are not to leave. You are to guard the king, Clegane-“

“And Lord Tyrion told you to find my wife,” Sandor’s face paled, rendering the burned side a deep red as he waved over several handmaidens and carefully set Sansa down.

Distractedly, Sansa moved away from the girl’s attentions and watched him inch closer to the knight, his fist gripping the hilt of his fighting knife. “You failed,” Sandor panted, rage laboring his breathing. “A man struck her, you bastard! They would have raped her-“

“Hound, I was following orders, I-“ Ser Preston raised his hands just as Sandor drove the knife right into the knight’s eye.

“You failed her for the last time,” Sandor twisted the blade, throwing the man to the ground.

Gasping, Tyrion slowly backed away, eying Sandor warily as he lifted Sansa in his arms once more.

Meryn pushed his way through the crowd. “What happened?”

“Ser Preston was killed during the riots,” Tyrion answered, turning away from the fallen knight. “Well done, Clegane.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Sandor growled as he pulled Sansa closer and carried her back to their rooms.


	15. The Husband and the Warrior

The metallic odor of blood and armor filled Sansa’s nostrils. The deafening screams and cries of the rioters surrounded her but she didn’t care; all that mattered was that she was safe in the arms of her husband. Burying her face in Sandor’s neck, the young woman wished he would make haste in securing them inside the Red Keep.

Sandor kept his sword drawn in front of her as they moved through the courtyard, his fearsome expression sending peasants and highborns alike scampering out of their way. Ser Meryn stopped them at the castle entranceway, blocking their admittance.“Get the fuck out of my way or get cut down, one,” Sandor snarled, his face twisting frighteningly as he eyed the knight.

“Clegane, the king needs you in the throne room.”

“You…you…” Sandor sputtered angrily, the color draining from his face. “You brought her there…you wouldn’t go to her, even after the Imp commanded it!”

The knight’s eyes grew wide with fear. “Hound, I was-“

Carefully he set Sansa down. “What did you hear him say, little bird? Tell me.”

Hesitantly she answered, “Lord Tyrion asked for me, and the king said: 'let them have her’. Then I ran and from inside I heard Tyrion tell Ser Meryn and Ser Preston to take some men and go find me.”

Sandor paled even further, his eyes black and glittering. “And what did he say?”

“Hound, I-“

Sandor brought his fighting knife to the man’s throat. “Don’t interrupt my wife.” Turning to her, he asked once more, his rasping voice trembling with rage. “What did Meryn say, wife?”

Shivering, Sansa dared not look away. “He said he takes his orders from the king.”

Without a word, Sandor whirled around and brought his longsword crashing down on the man, nearly splitting his body in two.

Terrified, Sansa let out a small cry, the sound bringing Sandor out of the black fury roiling through his veins.  Hurriedly the man lifted her into his arms. “Shh, little bird, it’s alright. You mustn’t fear me, lass; I won’t hurt you.”

“No, I do not fear you…it is just-“

“I know, I know,” Sandor whispered soothingly in her ear. “Ser Barristan, open the bloody doors!”

The heavy leaved doors cautiously swung open. “Lady Clegane, are you hurt?” Ser Barristan’s eyes widened in alarm as he took her in appearance.

Gingerly she raised her hand to her swollen cheek. “Just a little. I am alright. Sandor saved me.” Her voice quivered as she spoke.

“I am taking her to our rooms,” Sandor stepped over the fallen knight. “Will you have a member of the Kingsguard take over for me?”

“Certainly, Clegane. Go, tend to your wife,” Ser Barristan stepped aside and motioned to two of the guards. “I’ll call for the maester. She’ll need ointments for her injuries.” Pausing, he asked low, “What happened to Meryn?”

Grunting, Sandor brushed past the old knight. “He underestimated his opponent for the last time. Girl,” he stopped a passing handmaiden. “Have a bath drawn in our room, now.”

* * *

When they arrived at their rooms, Shae was finishing filling the tub.  The maester was already there, setting out various salves and bandages. “I’ll see to your lady, Lord Clegane. She needs be examined.”

“Get out, now!” Sandor roared, kicking over the chair and baring his teeth at the man. “I’ll bloody well do it myself!”

The man anxiously backed toward the door. Shae cast a worried glance at Sansa and then closed the door.

“Tell me what those men did to you.” Sandor’s rasped low, the pained words forced from his mouth as he unwrapped the cloak from her body.

“They ripped my gown,” Sansa shrugged off his cloak and the remnants of her gown.

Drawing in a deep breath, his gaze fell on the scratches on the top of her breasts. “What else did he do?”

The returning fury in his eyes rendered her speechless.

“Tell me, wife.”

“The one man struck me.”

Sandor averted his eyes, the man trembling with rage. “Did they - did they violate you?”

Shaking her head, Sansa cupped his face. “You came just in time.”

“No, little bird,” Sandor brushed the back of his hand over the cut on her cheek.  “No, I didn’t.” Gently he began removing her torn clothing, his eyes thoroughly examining every portion of her body as it was revealed to him.

She closed her eyes and focused on the feel of his large hands gently trailing over her skin, warming Sansa and soothing her frayed nerves. Sighing deeply, she leaned into his touch.

Frowning, Sandor knelt before her and studied the bruises blooming on her ankle. “How did this happen?”

“I twisted it when I was running from them,” she explained. “It doesn’t hurt very much.”

Grunting, he nodded and settled her in the steaming water. “This will help.”

“Will you not join me?”

“Aye, lass. I’ve got to get the blood off of me. It carries disease.”

Absently Sansa watched him unfasten his armor, shed his own clothing and then ease in beside her, sloshing water over the rim of the tub as he did so. Relieved tears overwhelmed her, and Sansa clung to him, sobbing into his neck.

He allowed his fingers to trail over the muscles in her back before he gently cupped her buttocks in his hands. Sansa wanted nothing more than to be closer to him, to draw on his strength, and so she crawled into his lap and buried her face in his hair. It was not enough; she pulled him closer and wrapped her legs around him, the feel of his hot skin against her own somehow comforting.

Sansa felt him harden beneath her, but Sandor did not move to kiss her. “Easy lass,” he whispered into her hair, tenderly caressing her back as he shifted slightly away from her. “You may want to steer clear of such dealings for a while.”

“No, what they did has nothing to do with what happens between us,” Sansa insisted. “Please, I just need to feel close to you.”

“You are close to me,” Sandor murmured, lathering her hair. “I’ll not leave you, Sansa, believe that.”

“I know. You always keep your word to me.”

“How is that?” He asked, studying her face.

“You swore that no one would hurt me again or you would kill them, and you did just that.”

Chuckling, he nodded. “So I did. Scared you, didn't it?”

“A bit,” Sansa admitted. It was not Sandor that scared her, exactly; it was the ferocity of his anger, the black fury in his eyes, the way his face twisted into a wicked smile as he drove his blade into the men. Sandor stared at her intently, and after a moment Sansa felt she should explain. “I am not afraid of you, Sandor; it is that I am not accustomed to such violence.”

Grunting he nodded and began lathering her body. The lavender fragrance, the warm water and the feel of Sandor’s hands gliding over her skin calmed her, and soon she felt sleepy. When he finished, Sansa smiled up at him and gestured to the soap, indicating she would return the favor.

As she bathed him, Sansa marveled at the scars covering his body, each one a memorial from a life filled with violence. It both saddened her and yet somehow she found it reassuring, for each one also represented his courage and will to survive. Keeping her thoughts to herself, she gently bathed and washed his hair. When finished, Sandor wrapped her in a thick blanket and carried her to the bed.

“You want the drought the maester left for your nerves?” Sandor moved the maester’s tray to the nightstand and lit the candles.

“No, thank you. I just want to feel you next to me; that is enough.”

A pleased expression lit up his face. “Here, wife, I needs tend those injuries.”

Meekly she removed the blanket and tossed it aside, her cheeks reddening under his intense gaze.

She gestured to her injuries. “Even like this you are able to look at me in such a way?”

“You’re a beauty, and a few scrapes cannot change that.” Chuckling, he sat down beside her, the mattress sinking under his weight.

“You are injured, too,” Sansa observed, her finger gently ghosting over a scratch on his heavily muscled bicep.

“I’ve cut myself worse shaving,” Sandor shrugged and resumed dabbing salve on on her cheek. “I don’t think this one needs bandaging, but those do,” he gestured to her breasts. “If those leave a scar, I’ll dig up the bastard’s worthless body and cut off his hands.”

Sansa had spent her life trying to avoid scars, and it would not do for her to have marks that displeased her husband. “I do not believe it will. This has aloe in it, and when Mother put this on our cuts back home, they rarely left marks. If it does I will fade them with lemon juice so it will not look too unpleasant.”

His eyes darted up to hers. “Sansa, bloody hells, it’s not that. I don’t want you to be reminded every day of what happened. I know what that's like.”

Feeling foolish, Sansa sheepishly averted her eyes until she felt his finger tip her chin back up to him. Staring into his deep gray eyes, slowly a small smile curled on her lips, and she watched his own mouth twitch into a grin, mirroring her expression. Sansa raised his hand to her mouth and kissed it, then rested her cheek against his rough skin.

Sandor slowly allowed his fingers to trace the curve of each breast, his thumb brushing lightly over her nipples. Instinctively she arched into his touch, eliciting a low laugh from him. Clearing his throat, he delicately applied the salve and then carefully wrapped the area with gauze.

The cool ointment eased the burning pain of the wounds, and Sansa sighed contentedly. “Thank you, husband, that feels so much better. Here, allow me to tend you.”

Shrugging, Sandor held out his arm to her, all the while staring hungrily at her body. Sansa blushed deeply but did not move to cover herself. After she dressed his wound, she stepped back and examined her handiwork. “There, the cut is quite shallow and I believe it will heal nicely.”

“You’re the prettiest maester I’ve ever seen,” Sandor rasped low, pulling her tight against his chest and tipping her face up to him.

Sansa leaned forward and captured his mouth with her own while fisting his hair in her hands, drawing him closer. “Shall we lie down for a bit?” She whispered shyly.

Sandor laughed, his eyes twinkling as his regarded her. “Are you tired, wife?”

“No,” she blushed further, pulling him down on the bed. “I am hungry for my husband.”

“Are you certain?” Sandor asked, raising his brow questioningly.

 “Yes,” Sansa wriggled impatiently in his arms. “Do you not want me?”

“Always,” he growled, lifting her onto his lap. Sandor ran his hands through the length of her hair, exposing the skin of her neck. The feel of his scarred mouth sent tingles through her body. Tenderly he kissed her temples, his lips brushing lightly against each of her cheeks and her chin before claiming her mouth once more. From there, Sandor slowly made his way down her neck, tracing small circles on the hollow of throat and her shoulders with his tongue.

Giggling softly, Sansa reveled in the feel of her husband. His warm wet tongue caressing her breasts and down the slope of her stomach, over the tops of her thighs while his powerful arms encircled her filled her with desire. Vaguely Sansa understood her husband was determined to replace all pain she had suffered with pleasure. He even kissed the tender flesh behind her knees, nipping at each ankle and the balls of her feet. After kissing each of her toes, ever so slowly he trailed his tongue back up to her mound, resting his cheek on her inner thigh for a moment before descending on her woman’s place.

Hungrily Sandor feasted on her most intimate place, until Sansa sobbed out her pleasure again and again, the young woman shamelessly begging him to come into her.

“My blood is up, wife, and I am afraid I’ll not be able to control myself,” Sandor gasped out as she lowered her hips over his lap. His words recalled to her the many times she saw her father hastily escorting her mother to their bedchamber after his practice in the training yard.

“Then let me love you,” Sansa whispered in his ear, biting down on his shoulder as she sheathed his manhood deep inside her.

Trembling, he gripped her hips and moaned long and low as she tentatively began rocking them back and forth. Gradually she increased her movements; Sandor threw back his head and cried out, his face contorting in pleasure. “Ride me as hard and fast as you want, little bird,” he choked out, his entire body trembling with restraint. “You won’t hurt me.”

With shameless abandon, Sansa held his gaze as she rode his length, never slowing her pace until they both were soaked with arousal and Sandor curled around her, spending himself deep inside her with a long shuddering cry.

He reached between them and circled this thumb over her, thrusting inside her as he did so, and Sansa soon found her pleasure once again. Afterward, she gingerly began to move off his lap, but Sandor firmly clamped both arms around her, refusing to allow her to separate from him.“Please, wife, just let me - just let me hold you,” Sandor panted out, struggling to still his breath.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Sansa reached up and caressed his face with both hands. “I could have lost you today,” she whispered, “you could have been killed-“

“I’ll hear no such talk, little bird. What’s done is done.”

“It is true,” Sansa insisted, holding his gaze. “You endangered yourself to save my life, and if you had died without ever hearing me tell you how much I love you, I would have never been able to forgive myself.”

Suddenly he paused and gripped her chin tightly between his fingers. “Little bird, are you-?”

“Yes, Sandor Clegane, I love you. I have loved you for some time,” Sansa offered a nervous smile. “Every night I whispered it after you fell asleep. I did not say it while you were awake, though, for fear you would not like it or that you would not believe me. I could not have born it if you mocked me.”

Shaking his head, Sandor rasped, “Sansa-“

“I regret that I waited so long. I love you, Sandor.”

Stunned, Sandor searched her face, his eyes filling with warm tears. Suddenly he clutched her against his chest. “Little bird,” he breathed into her hair with a shuddering sigh.

 _Is he upset?_ She had feared he would be displeased but this reaction was altogether unexpected. _Did I do something wrong?_ “Are you crying, my love?” Sansa whispered uncertainly.

“No, damn it,” came the muffled reply. Warm tears showering her neck and shoulder gave him away, however, and Sansa pulled him closer still.

“I love you, Sandor,” she repeated, running her fingers through his hair.

“As I love you, lass,” Sandor muttered before he sheepishly moved away from her.

“You needn’t look so guilty about it,” Sansa teased gently, settling herself beside him. His heavy breathing eventually slowed as she soothingly caressed even circles over his chest.

Finally, Sandor pulled her closer and traced her cheek with his finger while staring into her eyes. “I love you, Sansa,” he rasped softly. “And I do not feel guilty for doing so, believe that.”

Clinging to him, Sansa giggled delightedly and impulsively she covered his face with kisses. Sandor slid a warm hand over her shoulders, a low chuckle escaping his lips in response. After she settled back in his arms, a comfortable silence stretched between them until the couple fell fast asleep.


	16. The Little Bird and the Hound Prepare to Leave

The firelight glowed orange behind her eyelids, rousing Sansa from slumber. Rolling onto her side, her hand patted the space beside her. Finding it empty, she then reached for Sandor, only opening her eyes when she discovered he was no longer beside her. Stretching languidly, she sleepily peeked through her lashes.

He was sitting on the hearth wearing only his smallclothes, carefully wiping the blood from the length of his greatsword. When she stirred, Sandor turned toward her, his mouth curling into a devilish grin. “Feel better, little bird?”

She nodded and held her arms out to him with a shy smile.

Instantly he was at her side, warmly embracing her. “Are you sore?”

Indeed she was. It seemed even the slightest movement uncovered new aches and pains. Sansa’s hip and ankle throbbed, as did the left side of her face. “Yes, it seems to hurt more now than it did at first.”

“I thought as much. Here,” Sandor handed her a small vial. “This is arnica. Take it, it eases sore muscles.”

“Sandor, it is not so very bad. I do not want anything like milk of the poppy-“

“No, wife, this will reduce swelling. It’s Free folk medicine; it grows in the highlands of the north.” Sandor frowned at her. “You never saw it at Winterfell?”

“I do not know,” Sansa admitted, the look in Sandor’s eyes making her wonder if her appearance had also taken a turn for the worse while she slept. “Arya and the boys might have taken it but not I.Truthfully I was never injured much at home beyond an occasional scratch from my sewing needles or burnt fingers in the kitchen.”

 “A proper lady you are,” Sandor grunted, “not like your sister.”

“That is true, but Arya is good at other things, useful things,” Sansa’s voice trailed off, the mention of her sister bringing a sudden ache to her heart. She wondered where Arya was now and if she was safe. 

Bitter tears stung her eyes as she turned away and busied herself folding the throw.  “How did you learn of this medicine?”

“I spent some time near the Wall,” Sandor stiffened. “I learned of it there, took it myself a time or two.”

Sansa decided not to inquire further of her husband further; there would be plenty of time for that when they were traveling north. In just a few days there will be no need for secrecy, no fear of who might overhear their conversations. And she would be reunited with her father! _How proud he will be when he learns what Sandor has done for us!_  

Smiling, she took his hand. “You are a better man than any knight I have ever known and I cannot wait to begin our new life away from here. Thank you.”

Smirking, Sandor shrugged and scratched his beard. “Tis nothing, wife.”

“No, you mustn’t say that,” Sansa crawled into his lap and rested her arms around his neck. “It is everything to me. One day, I will tell our children the story of how their father braved a mob to save me. I will tell them many stories of your fearlessness and swordsmanship. They will all come to know their father to be the smart, courageous man with whom I fell in love, you can depend upon it.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Sandor muttered with a frown, the man stifling a pleased expression with difficulty.

“I will,” Sansa kissed him while gingerly rising from his lap. “Please, would you help me put on my robe? I must have fallen harder than I originally thought. Sleep seems to have revealed a myriad of aches.”

“Come here,” Sandor gestured, helping her into the garment. “I’ll send for some liniment. Our meal is on the way. Are you hungry?”

“No, not really,” Sansa nervously toyed with her sash, her mind going back to the man with the garlicky breath. 

Sandor’s eyes fell to her hands. “I want you to eat, hungry or not. It will help you heal and settle your nerves besides.”

“Are the spies about?” She whispered in his ear.

“No, no one has come through here. I’ve paid Podrick Payne good coin to watch the hallway for us. If anyone comes poking around, he’ll let me know.”

“I thought for certain they would be snooping about after what happened.”

“That’s just why they haven’t, wife. No one is of a mind to cross me after the riot."

“It is not what happened earlier that makes me fret,” Sansa hastily steered the conversation away from the revolt. “I am more worried about Lord Tyrion and Ser Barristan. I am certain Ser Barristan knows you killed Meryn.”

“The old knight came by while you rested. I’m sure he suspects it but he didn’t ask and I didn’t offer. He’ll not say a word.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“If any man understands what you call honor, it’s Barristan. What buggering bastard stands by and allows men who jeopardize his wife see another sunrise? As for the Imp, well, let’s just say he knows what it is to see his wife violated. He’s the last man who would interfere with me.”

Though Sansa still was not entirely convinced, she slowly assented to his reasoning. “With all the commotion, how did Ser Barristan manage to come to you? I thought he would be leading the security detail for Joffrey.”

Sandor cleared his throat. “Joffrey relieved him of duty. Said something about him being too old to protect the family, first with his father dying and then the riots, and that his services were no longer required.”

Sansa clutched the fur around her shoulders. “Oh, that must have devastated him!”

“Aye,” Sandor agreed. “He meant to spend all his days in service to the Iron throne and die a knight. Now he’ll be journeying with us north, poor bastard.”

Gasping, the young woman gaped, scarcely able to imagine the honorable knight man who served the Iron throne loyally through three kings would change allegiance. She knew her father respected him but still the idea of traveling north with him sent a fresh wave of anxiety to her stomach.“Do you think he can be trusted?” Sansa uncertainly asked.

“Aye, more than anyone else in this gods forsaken place,” Sandor pulled her close.  “He and your father fought together during Robert’s rebellion, you recall. The bonds made in wartime are not easily broken.”

Sansa knew that much was true. It would be quite a fete to have such a distinguished knight in the service of House Stark, and Sandor would no doubt handle him properly if he proved false. Still, there was the matter of the king, and even if he was foolish enough to let so fine a man as Ser Barristan go, Cersei surely would not.

“But Sandor, the queen will never agree to it. You see how easily she holds sway over her son.”

Sandor smirked contemptuously, “That little shit thinks Barristan would serve me as Warden of the North but that his Kingsguard vows bind his true allegiance to the Iron throne. Inbred idiot.”

Sansa could not fathom where Joffrey got such a peculiar notion or that Cersei would allow him to believe it.  All highborn children, especially those in line for rulership, learned the protocol of the knights’ vows in detail.  “Where did the king get such an unusual idea?”

“The Imp. He spoke so convincingly even Cersei was confused.”

Tension clutched Sansa’s stomach but she remained silent as Sandor helped her gingerly test her weight on her swollen ankle.

“You packed some of our things, I see,” he gestured to the trunks.

“Oh, yes, forgive me for not finishing. Tomorrow I will do my best to complete the packing of our clothing and supplies. The rest I will leave to you.”

“Remember wife, we leave day after tomorrow.”

“Will we, truly?” Sansa sadly asked. “After today, Sandor, I am beginning to doubt Joffrey will send you away. He needs you to fight against Stannis and after the riot…”

Gently Sandor drew her into his arms. “With the war coming to King’s Landing, Joffrey needs to prove himself now more than ever. Cersei knows it, too. The woman is no fool; she’s heard the lords sniggering behind her brats’ back. If she doesn’t allow him to follow through with this, the king will be perceived as a babe dragging on the tit by the court and the realm alike.”

Pursing her lips, Sansa sat beside him and nodded. Joffrey did seem cognizant of his perilous position, for as of late he had been openly opposing Cersei’s suggestions in court and earning a measure of respect from the men.

Anxiously she watched as Sandor meticulously polished the grooves in the handle of his greatsword, lost in thought. After a moment, he turned to her. “Are you sorry, wife?”

“Sorry?” Sansa shook her head. “I do not understand.”

Leaning closer, he gripped her jaw between his fingers. “For earlier; for our intimacy.”

“Why would you ask me such a thing?” Pulling her robe closer, she frowned at him.

“It was very soon, after…” his voice trailed off. Immediately Sansa moved onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck once more.

“No, I _wanted_ our intimacy, Sandor,” she ran her fingers through the length of his hair. “You made me feel loved and safe. It felt good to be close to you.” Softly Sansa pressed her mouth against his lips. “As it always does. You have never pressured me, Sandor, you must believe that. I love you.”

Yielding, Sandor pulled her closer and deepened the kiss, allowing his hands to gently smooth over her back and hips in soothing circles. “You don’t hold me responsible?”

“Hold you responsible for what?”

“For this,” Sandor lightly traced the back of his index finger over the cut on her cheekbone. “If I had gotten there sooner-“

“No,” she whispered firmly, “no, I will not allow you to second guess yourself, Sandor. You saved my life and I will be forever grateful.” Sansa kissed him deeply for emphasis. “No more such talk, my love.”

Sighing, Sandor quietly nodded in agreement. A knock on the solar door drew Sandor from her arms, the man tightly gripping his short sword as he cautiously opened the door. It was Podrick pushing in a cart of food. “Milord, I sent the servant away and brought it myself.”

“That’s fine, lad,” Sandor handed him a large pouch of coin Sansa recognized as the same one he gave Taena. “You served me well today. Go buy some wine and a whore, if you like.”

Blushing, the young man glanced at Sansa and stammered, “Oh, milord, I…”

“Quit tripping over your tongue and go,” Sandor made a sound that might have been a laugh and closed the door.

After Sandor set out the meal, Sansa cautiously asked, “The coin pouch you gave him-do you have several of the same style? I believe that one was very similar to the one you gave the seamstress. If you have a preference I shall make more for you just the same.”

“You noticed?” He grinned devilishly at her. “The two are one in the same. I took care of that business myself earlier.”

Stunned, Sansa whispered, “Did you-“

“Aye I did, and before you go on, I’m not sorry for it,” Sandor growled, his eyes glittering angrily. “That wench came to do you harm, don’t forget.”

“No, I won’t.”

“That evil lioness bitch learned today what it is to lose one of her playthings,” he smirked. “She’ll bleed for her treachery, believe that,” Sandor’s voice rasped frighteningly cold, but Sansa knew better than to look away.”No one, _no one_ , threatens my family and comes away unscarred.”

* * *

 

The next day Sansa kept to their rooms, carefully packing the rest of their belongings. She remained silent as she worked, all the while entreating the old gods to help them. Shae seemed to understand, and the young woman kept conversation to a minimum.

Before she retired for the evening, Sansa called for her to sit down. “Shae, I want to thank you for all you have done for me.”

“And what have I done?” Shae’s onyx eyes twinkled as she tweaked Sansa’s cheek. “I brushed your hair and clipped your nails and emptied your chamber pot.”

Laughing, Sansa nodded, “Yes, you have done all those things but you have done far more than you know.”

“I have loved you, Sansa,” Shae bitterly admitted, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“And I you, Shae,” Sansa took her hands. “You have been like a sister to me. Arya would love you, and I want you to meet her one day.”

“Sansa-“

“Come with us,” Sansa implored her. “Come north. You can have a new life there. You don’t need to be my servant-you could have any kind of life you wish.”

“You know I cannot,” Shae half-heartedly whispered. “I am Shae the funny whore.”

“You did what you had to do to survive,” Sansa kissed her cheeks. “We _both_ have. I would not dream of judging your choices.”

“I know. You are a dear child.”

“Here,” Sansa brushed away the tears from her eyes and held up a silver pendant of a tiny bird perched on the shoulder of a large dog. “This is for you. I hope you will wear it and think of me and Sandor.”

“How could I forget a girl such as you?” Shae hugged her close. “No highborn has ever been so good to me. No woman has either, for that matter.”

A great sadness settled over Sansa. “If you ever come north, show this pendant to the northerners and they will grant you safe passage, you have my word.”

Sandor opened the door and glanced in between the crying women before grunting and heading onto the bedroom.

Laughing, the two women walked to the solar door arm in arm. “I guess this is goodbye,” Shae wiped Sansa’s tears from her face with the back of her hand.

“Goodbye, Shae. I will pray for you every day, just as I have done since you came to me.  If you change your mind, come to us in the stables tomorrow before noon.” When Shae started to pull away, Sansa held her fast. “Please, tell me you will consider my offer. It is not safe for you here.”

“I will, my lady,” Shae kissed her and then tearfully  hurried out the door.


	17. An Upset of Plans

Sandor’s statements regarding Ser Barristan and her father replayed in her mind as she finished packing the last of their belongings. It was unlike Sandor to misspeak especially in matters pertaining to combat, and so the young wife could not help but puzzle over her husband’s curious words. _S_ _er Barristan and Father fought together?_ They were on opposing sides. _No, surely Sandor meant against each other._ Years of listening to the Greatjon’s tales of the Battle of the Trident taught Sansa that her father did not meet Ser Barristan face to face, though admittedly he provided very little detail beyond what was commonly known.

In fact, there were many things Sandor said that left her confused. It seemed clear enough that Lord Tyrion was helping them, but why? He had no love for the Starks, that much she knew, and Sandor certainly never concealed his disgust with the man. Why would they work together? It was also clear that Sandor had been speaking to her father in confidence and only shared the barest details with her.

The entire situation wore on her nerves. Frustrated and afraid, the night before Sansa finally reached the limit for her tolerance of such secrecy and demanded answers from her husband.

“Your father insisted I not tell you, little bird,” Sandor sheepishly explained after she railed at him. “He believes it is safer for you that way.”

“Why?” Sansa threw up her hands. “Why on earth would it be safer for me to be kept ignorant of such important matters?”

“You’re a terrible liar, lass, and Ned knows it better than anyone,” Sandor rasped, brushing her hair from her shoulders. “If Varys or Baelish enquired the right way, you’d sing like the little bird you are, believe that.”

“How dare you! I most certainly would not-“

“I’m not saying you are stupid, wife. It’s only that far more skilled liars have succumbed to them, and you, love, as honest and good hearted a woman as you are, wouldn’t stand a chance against their machinations.”

“I may indeed _sing_ , as you say, but that does not prevent me from knowing when to remain silent,” Sansa huffed before stomping into the bedroom and slamming the door.

Once she cooled off, Sansa conceded that Sandor was right: with those two afoot, the wise course was to remain as scarce as possible. At any rate, what she didn’t know could not be extracted from her, no matter how skilled the interrogator and so she grudgingly bent to her family’s will without further complaint.

When Sansa finished packing, Sandor loaded their trunks onto the wagon.

“I would speak to my father before we leave tonight,” Sansa quietly held his hands. “Do you think such will be possible?”

“I doubt it. The castle is preparing for battle, and besides, we will leave as soon as your father is made ready. The king has Barristan with him now; afterward we will depart and you can speak in private then.”

Sighing heavily, Sansa assented. “I will not be at ease until we are far away from here, and I am certain Father feels the same.”

“I know, wife,” Sandor lightly kissed her hand. “Nor will I. Today is the last day here, I swear it.”

Sansa searched his face. “Do you think Joffrey will let us go?”

Sandor held her face in his hands and stared deep into her eyes. “Stannis’ fleet is expected tonight, and whether Joffrey wills it or not, we’re leaving, I swear it on every one of your fucking gods. Do you believe me?”

Uncertainty welled within her but Sansa only smiled softly and nodded at him. “I do, husband.”

* * *

 “Robert was a good man a great warrior and a terrible king,” Ser Barristan sat on the bench in the bathhouse while Ned soaked in the steaming water.

“You are a man of honor and you served him loyally for many years,”  Ned answered gravely, scrubbing the layers of filth from his skin with difficulty. ”I shudder to think what he would say to this turn of events.”

”You speak truly. A man of honor keeps his vows even if he is serving a drunk or a lunatic.  I’ve burned away my years fighting for terrible kings.” Ser Barristan tossed him a towel. “Life is strange. Not so many years ago we fought each other as enemies at the Trident.”

“I am glad we never met on the field,” he grinned, “and so is my wife.”

Gritting his teeth, the old knight quietly admitted, “As am I. Never mind that ancient battle; I failed Robert.”

“No man could have protected him from himself.”

“If we are truly her loyal servants, we’ll do whatever needs to be done, no matter the cost, no matter our pride.”

“You did what you could on Robert’s small council. No man could have done more and when he got an idea in his head, poor was the fellow who tried to dissuade him.”

“I did not sit on the small council.”

“Does not the Lord Captain of the Kingsguard traditionally sit on the Small Council?”

“Traditionally yes, but I killed a dozen or so of Robert’s men during the Rebellion,” Ser Barristan chuckled darkly.

“So you did,” Ned smiled, rising out of the water and pulling on the new clothing Sansa made for him.

“Their friends were none too eager to have me serve alongside them.”

“It is a difficult thing to ask a man to pledge fealty to one man while serving amidst his enemies,” Ned faced the battle hardened man. “How do you feel about my goodson? Tell me truly.”

Sighing, the old knight shrugged. “He is far too low born for your daughter, Lord Eddard. The Hound is as brutal a killer as I have ever encountered, but he is nothing like his monstrous brother Gregor. He kills out of duty, more often than not. If Lady Sansa were my daughter I cannot say I would be pleased with the match but I cannot deny that Clegane cares for her. I’ve known him since he was a lad and Lady Sansa has brought out a side in the man I never thought I’d see.” Leaning close, he added, “He killed two men of the Kingsguard without hesitation for her, and half a dozen peasants besides.”

Stunned, Ned whispered. “Did he now? What happened?”

“There was a riot after Princess Myrcella departed and your daughter was caught in the melee. The king refused to send the men who brought her to secure her safety.”

“Poor lass,” Ned muttered through clenched teeth. “Was Sansa injured? Was she-“

Ser Barristan shook his head. “She was cuffed a bit but seems quite well in spite of her ordeal.”

“What did Clegane do?”

“Mad as a wild dog, he was, the men told me. Tyrion saw him cut both of them nearly in two for not guarding her properly. Got what they deserved, they did.”

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Ned pressed further. “Did Tyrion and Joffrey punish Clegane?”

“The king doesn’t know. Lord Tyrion commanded me not to tell, and I would not have done so anyway. It was his gods given right as her husband and Clegane did no more than I would have expected from him.”

“I am relieved she has so loyal a husband, even if he is the Hound. Ser Barristan, let us speak plainly: do you truly mean to serve the north?” Ned studied the man warily. “Will you serve Sandor Clegane, the second son of a minor house and not even a landed knight, as Joffrey expects of you?”

“Yes, my lord, I mean to serve you and the north, but not as Joffrey wishes. I will pledge fealty to you as king of the north, if you will have me.”

“This is no small request I make of you. Give me your answer and you have my word, I will honor your wishes and free you of your obligations once we are north. I owe you that, Ser.”

“You owe me nothing, Lord Stark. I failed to warn you about Littlefinger and you paid dearly for it,” Ser Barristan laid a large greatsword at Ned’s feet, the red Valyrian blade rippling brightly in the candlelight. “Just once in my life before it’s over I want to know what it’s like to serve with pride, to fight for someone I believe in. My sword is yours to command, Lord Eddard. I return to you your rightful ancestral blade Ice, Lord Eddard, as a symbol of my commitment to you. Allow me to serve on your Kingsguard and I will never fail you again.”

* * *

 Sansa patiently waited for Sandor to return, but an hour after the noon meal, he had yet to arrive. Fearing the worst, she anxiously paced the room while praying to the old gods.

By late afternoon, Sandor finally appeared, his face twisted in a black rage even more frightening than the day of the riots.Shouting, he overturned the table while cursing at the top of his voice.

“My love, what has happened?” Sansa hurried to his side in spite of her trepidation. “Are you alright?”

“That little shit…he…he decided to keep us here for the duration of the battle,” Sandor angrily panted out, his body shaking with fury. Gripping her shoulders, he pulled her tightly against his chest. “I will get us out of here, Sansa. I swore to you that I would and I will keep my word or die trying, one.”

“No, Sandor, you must not say such things-“

“Little bird, listen to me carefully: Ser Barristan and I will find a way to get Ned here to you. Cersei is going to expect you to go to Maegor’s-I want you to go along with it.” He clutched her against him so tightly that Sansa could scarcely breath.

“You know I cannot. If I go there, I will be trapped.”

“No, wife,” Sandor stared levelly into her eyes, his gaze glittering with unprecedented fierceness. “Do you trust me?”

Sandor’s hands trembled against her as he held her tightly against him. The intensity of her husband’s rage frightened her, and Sansa struggled not to shrink away from him. “Of course I do. I love you.”

“Your handmaid will see to it that your chance to flee will come. Tyrion and I have made sure of it. You hurry back here as fast as your feet will carry you, understand?”

Sansa’s mind was reeling and so it took her a moment to find her voice. “Yes.”

“I love you, Sansa, and believe me when I say that we are leaving this thrice damned place tonight,” Sandor brought his mouth to her ear. “And I will gut that little monster, his bitch of a mother, and anyone else who stands in our way.”

His words sent a chill through her body. After kissing him softly, Sansa whispered, “The gods will keep us safe, husband.”

“What gods?”

“The old gods; I saw it in a dream.”

Frowning, he drew her chin up to him. “You saw _what_ in a dream, wife?”

“I saw our escape,” Sansa wrung her hands, fearing Sandor’s inevitable derision. “I saw Cersei and Joffrey, and Stannis backed them down. After that I saw you and Father fighting alongside each other, and the three of us escaped. Forgive me for not telling you earlier-I know you do not believe in such things and I cannot bear for you to goad me about my faith.”

Sandor’s expression transformed into a look of disbelief, and yet the fierce man did not mock her. “I ought not to have done that,” he muttered, kissing her hand. “You pray to your old gods if it comforts you, wife.”

“I will, my love. I will pray they protect you and guide your sword.”

“You do that, little bird,” Sandor forced his lips into a taut smile. “If the gods listen to anyone, Sansa, it is you.”


	18. The Escape Part 1

The concussive force of the wildfire rocked the Red Keep, rattling the rafters and sending debris falling from the ceiling. Inside Maegor’s Holdfast, the eerie green glow illuminated the highborn women, who remained frozen in terror but by no means silent. Clinging to each other, they cried and supplicate the gods by turns while Cersei drunkenly postulated on the unspeakable horrors awaiting them should Stannis prevail. The agonizing cries of the dying echoed inside the battlement walls; outside, Sansa could scarcely imagine the terror.

Clutching the doll her father gave her, Sansa inhaled slowly and focused on stilling her mind. Kneeling before the makeshift altar, the young woman fervently prayed for Sandor’s safety, speaking her words aloud. “Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our husbands from war, we pray. Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Sooth the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all the kinder way.”

“You are just perfect, aren’t you?” Cersei hissed as the maid refilled her goblet. Steadfastly ignoring the queen’s taunts, Sansa then supplicated the Warrior to guide Sandor’s sword in battle and for her father and Ser Barristan to make it through the chaos and safely come to her.

When Ser Lancel Lannister told the queen that the battle was lost, she turned her empty wine cup in her hands and said, "Tell my brother, ser."

"Your brother's likely dead. He was on the bridge of boats when it broke apart, we think. No one can find the Hound. Gods be damned, Cersei, why did you have them fetch Joffrey back to the castle? The gold cloaks are throwing down their spears and running gods knows where. When they saw the king leaving, they lost all heart. The whole Blackwater's awash with wrecks and fire and corpses.”

 _God gods, where is Sandor?_ Sansa panicked and fell to her knees began praying to the old gods, her eye falling to a small bird perching on the window ledge as she did so. _How very strange_ , she thought, _it is like the bird from my dream_.

Somehow, she felt connected to it, inexplicably bound to the creature sitting peacefully on the window sill. A large crow landed beside the small bird, tilting its head and her and cawing loudly. Glancing around her, it seemed to Sansa that no one else noticed the unusual sight, let alone heard the cawing of the crow.

 _Sister_ …she heard a young man’s voice whisper in her ear. _Sister, all will go well with you and Father._ _Follow me and you will see your husband._ Instinctively Sansa closed her eyes, emptied her mind and allowed herself to imagine she was the little bird; and soon she felt as though she were the little bird flying over the Blackwater.

Far below the dark water was alight with wildfire; angry green swells pitched and rolled the debris of Stannis’ fleet, and everywhere there was fire. Scanning the beachhead, Sansa strained to see through the smoke and fire as she circled above the battle, frantically searching for her husband.

High above the beach south of the Mud Gate, Sansa spotted Sandor’s massive dog’s helm first, black as ash and covered in blood as the large man furiously hacked his way back inside the battlement. _“They are the meat, and I am the butcher,”_ Sansa heard his rasping voice say, the words sending a shiver throughout her body.

Inside the Mud Gate, Tyrion stood above the soldiers and Joffrey was there too, shouting orders at Sandor but Sansa could not understand what they were saying. Gruffly Sandor shouted as he moved past them, cursing as he continued his way into the Red Keep.

Shae knelt beside her and took her hand. “Are you alright, my lady? Your eyes, they glazed over-”

“Y-yes, Shae,” Sansa blinked several times, struggling to reorient herself to her surroundings. “Sandor is coming for me now.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw him-I can feel him drawing closer,” Sansa whispered in amazement.

Confusion etched her features, but Shae remained silent and continued stroking Sansa’s arm soothingly.

 _Bran-the crow sounded like my little brother!_ Osney Kettleblack’s voice brought her out of her thoughts. "There's fighting on both sides of the river now, Y'Grace. The Hound's gone, no one knows where, and Ser Balon's fallen back inside the city. The riverside's theirs. They're ramming at the King's Gate again, and Ser Lancel's right, your men are deserting the walls and killing their own officers. There are mobs at the Iron Gate and the Gate of the Gods fighting to get out, and Flea Bottom's one great drunken riot."

 _Joffrey's lost his head and so have I if Sandor does not arrive soon._ Glancing about, Sansa did not see Ser Ilyn, but the King's Justice was no doubt close. _He’ll have my head, just as he wanted my father’s head; any Stark blood will do. If only I were truly a little bird, I would fly away…_

Strangely calm, the queen commanded, “Raise the drawbridge and bar the doors. No one enters or leaves Maegor's without my leave. Bring Joffrey inside Maegor's now."

"No!" Lancel was so angry he forgot to keep his voice down. Heads turned toward them as he shouted, "We'll have the Mud Gate all over again. Let him stay where he is, he's the king—"

“I want my son with me!”

"Cersei," Ser Lancel pleaded, "If we lose the castle, Joffrey will be killed in any case, you know that. Let him stay. Stannis’ men surround the castle. He is at the gate.”

"Get out of my way." Cersei shoved him off to the side, burying her fist deep into his chest wound as she walked over his battered body. Ser Lancel cried out in pain as the queen swept from the room, not even sparing Sansa so much as a glance.

 _She's forgotten me. Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won't even think about it._ Shae took her by the arm. “Go, my lady. Stannis won’t hurt you,” she glanced toward Ser Ilyn, “This one will.”

“Come with me.”

Shae nodded and led Sansa toward the door; Ser Ilyn stepped out from behind the pillar and drew his sword with a shake of the head.

Struggling to his feet, Lancel explained, “The queen has given orders to the King’s Justice for your head, Lady Clegane. Your father and husband will return north knowing the pain of losing someone they love, as she has suffered separation from Ser Jaime.”

“You are no true knight, and you have no say in what happens to me. Get out of my way,” Sansa hissed at the man, her body shaking with a mixture of fear and fury. “My husband is to be the Warden of the North and he will see that you bleed for this treachery.”

Slowly Sansa slid Sandor’s fighting knife out of her sash. _“Strike the neck at the first opportunity, little bird, drive it in deep,”_ Sansa heard Sandor’s voice say as he tucked it into her gown that morning. “The man will bleed out, so make it count and then run like the seven devils.”

Glancing sideways at Sansa, Shae likewise unsheathed a knife strapped to her thigh.  “Get out of my lady’s way, or I’ll cut you down.”

“Step aside, Lancel,” Sansa demanded evenly, “I will not tell you again.”

Stepping forward, Ser Ilyn pointed the blade at her throat, gesturing for Sansa to bend at the knees and drop her weapon. Jutting out her chin, she squared her shoulders and raised her weapon over her head. “I am a Stark of Winterfell and the wife of Sandor Clegane. I will not kneel to you, Ser. I will die looking you straight in the eye, which is far more than most of your victims are afforded.”

A great commotion was heard outside the door; Ser Barristan and Lord Eddard burst through the oak structure with their swords drawn, slashing their way through the Kingsguard. Once inside, Ned snapped his head toward his daughter, his face paling in fear. “Sansa child!”

Ser Ilyn dug the point into her neck, trickling a stream of blood down her pale throat. “Father, do what you must.”

“Don’t do it, Ser Ilyn-“ Ser Barristan warned, holding his blade on Lancel.

Sneering, Ser Ilyn raised his blade.

“Don’t hurt my daughter,” Ned said evenly, staring at Sansa.

Gasping, she quickly fell to the floor just as her father brought Ice crashing down on the royal executioner with a violent force that cut the ugly man in two. The congregated women cried out and then fell silent, cowering in their corners.

“Come, Lemoncake,” Ned waved her into his arms. Squeezing him tightly, Sansa then whispered, “Father, thank the gods you came.”

“Good girl; you remembered what I taught you,” Ned grinned, pressing a cloth to her neck.

Sansa eagerly nodded. “Yes, Father, how could I forget our secret phrase?”

Ser Barristan curiously glanced between them. “Secret phrase?”

“Yes,” Sansa explained as Shae tended her wound, “when we were little and going into Wintertown as a family, Father taught us that if anyone ever threatened us and we heard him say, “Don’t hurt my children,” we were to immediately fall to the floor, for it meant Father was about to wield his greatsword.”

“Clever,” Ser Barristan nodded approvingly.

“Father, I prayed to the old gods and the new that you would find me.”

Shrugging, Ned led Sansa down the hallway by the hand. “The old gods heard your prayers, Sansa. They led me to you.”

Stunned, Sansa stopped midstride. “How?”

“Keep moving,” Ned pulled on her arm, “The crow, child; it was Bran, he saw you and led me to you.”

“Gods be good,” Sansa shook her head in amazement. “I saw the crow and I heard his voice! Then I imagined I was indeed the little bird by his side.”

“You _were_ the little bird, Sansa..”

Sansa searched her father’s calm grey eyes for answers but he merely tweaked her chin. “Many things happen when winter is upon us that do not happen in the summer, child, remember I taught you that?”

“Yes, Father, but I had no idea it would be magic.”

“Aye,” Ned smiled at her. “It is as much a part of the Starks as winter. What you have seen is only the beginning.”

Humbled, Sansa nodded. “I saw Sandor, Father; as the little bird, I saw him. He is coming to us, killing everyone in his path.”

“Sounds like the Hound,” Ser Barristan muttered.

Frowning, Sansa cast a withering glance at him and then continued, “Gregor was the one who burned him as a boy; he has never recovered from it. Father, I am afraid what fear and the wildfire may have wrought in him. He needs us, I can feel it.”

“We’ll deal with whatever Clegane needs as it comes, lass. The gods will help him. For now we need head toward your rooms as quickly as possible; Sandor will meet us there.”

When they reached the solar, Ser Barristan grabbed Shae by the arm, jerking her away from Sansa.  “You run along, wench.”

“No! She is my friend!”

“No she isn’t, my lady. She is Tyrion’s woman. Leave her here, I beg you.”

“Oh, no!” Sansa shook her head. “She saved my life!”

“She will betray us.”

“It is alright, my lady,” Shae sadly patted Sansa on the cheek. “I will be fine. Go with your father.”

“No, she won’t betray us! Please Father, let her come with us. There is no telling what will happen to her if she stays.”

Ned looked Shae over gravely. “Come with us. We’ll see what Clegane says about you.”

“Lord Eddard, we must make haste!” Ser Barristan shouted, drawing his sword as he stared out the window to the courtyard below. “Stannis’ men are at the gate! They will come to the family rooms first!”


	19. The Escape Part 2

The heavy clanking of armor echoed on the marble staircase of the Red Keep. Ser Barristan and Lord Eddard took up defensive positions on either side of the alcove to the family rooms while Sansa and Shae hid nearby.

The footsteps slowed; the scraping of metal pierced the silent hallway. The Hound’s visor lifted warily, revealing Sandor’s eyes glittering black with fury. As his helm appeared over the bannister, Sansa noticed one of the ears had been shorn off and that her husband was covered in soot and blood.

“Sandor!” Sansa cried out, leaping into his waiting arms.

“Sansa wait!” Ned shouted after her.

“Come here, wife,” he muttered low, gently placing his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. Ser Barristan and Ned exchanged glances at the unexpected gesture but remained silent as they observed the loving pair.

Frantically Sansa kissed his face and searched him for signs of injury by turns. “My love, are you alright? There is so much blood-”

“Aye I am well enough; not much of it is mine.” Carefully he removed his helm, bent down and took her into his arms once more. “Little bird,” Sandor whispered into her hair. “I thought of you the entire time. Your gods must have heard you.”

“Clegane, this can wait. We must go now!” Ser Barristan shouted. “Stannis’ men are battering the doors of the Red Keep! They will come to the family rooms first!”

Grudgingly Sandor moved away from his wife before his eyes fell to the blood on her neck and gown. “What the fuck happened?”  He roared, turning his searing glaze toward Ser Barristan. “Who did this?”

“Ilyn Payne cut her, goodson,” Ned answered quietly. “You’d have been proud of your wife-she brandished your knife, brave as anything, and was ready to meet the old gods staring that murderer in the eye.”

Sansa eased her hand up to Sandor’s cheek. “I remember what you taught me, love.”

“You’ll never need face such a man again,” Sandor rasped low, pulling her closer and gently running his finger over the delicate skin of her neck. “You ought not have been anywhere near him. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“No,” Sansa blinked back her tears, raising her hand to his forehead. “Are you certain you are not injured, husband? There is so much blood. Or is it-”

“Nothing too serious, that.” He settled his helm over his head and then ripped his cloak off and rested it over Sansa’s shoulders. Ned and Ser Barristan stared at Sandor, clearly puzzled by the man at once capable of merciless brutality and yet tenderly reverent of his young wife. “It’s raining out,” he offered by way of explanation. “Ser Barristan, guard Sansa with your life, will you?”

“I’ll keep her safe,” Ser Barristan drew his sword and jerked his head toward the handmaid. “What about this one?”

Turning to Shae, Sandor grunted, “Do you mean to come with us, girl?”

“Yes,” Shae answered, drawing her knife. “If Lord Eddard will allow it.”

“Father, please; I know her livelihood is not well thought of, but she is very loyal to me just the same. Let her come north with us and begin anew.”

Nodding, Ned smiled softly at her. “Alright, Lemoncake; we’ll bring her north.”

“Thank you, Father,” Sansa beamed, squeezing her arm excitedly.

“Get ready, then, Shae,” Sandor rasped, gesturing to her leg with his shortsword. “I know you’ve got a weapon on you somewhere.”

“Aye that I do, Hound,” Shae raised her skirts and unsheathed the fighting knife on her calf.

Sandor nodded approvingly, “Then let’s go. Kill any son of a bitch that stands between us and the stables.”

* * *

 Stannis’ army crashed through the Mud Gate with a mighty shout, the men rushing into the Red Keep.Baretheon and Lannister soldiers poured forth, adding to the confusion. Sansa wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and bury her face as Sandor, her father and Ser Barristan fought their way through the men outside the castle. The screams and clashing steel inside the castle could be heard in the courtyard. “They must have reached Maegor’s Holdfast,” Sansa stuttered out. “The women-“

“That’s the king’s worry now, my lady,“ Ser Barristan muttered. “My former brothers can protect them.”  True to his word, the knight kept her close to him, though he did very little fighting. Ned battled alongside Sandor and neither man allowed any opponent past them. Sansa had never seen her father fight; it was a terrible, impressive thing to behold her sire wielding Ice with deadly accuracy, cutting through the soldiers with a brutal force she did not know him capable of.

Brandishing his greatsword and shortsword,  observing Sandor’s incredible speed, strength and agility in action both fascinated and frightened her, though the damage it wrought was most gruesome indeed. Snarling out a fearsome laugh, he slashed through all who stood in his path with an efficiency that recalled his words on the serpentine: _“they're all meat, and I'm the butcher”._

The recollection sent an involuntary shiver through her body. “We’re almost there, my lady,” Ser Barristan grunted, shoving a man away and driving his steel into his belly. Another soldier quickly appeared in his place, reaching out for Sansa.  Without hesitation, she whirled about and plunged her blade into his neck just as Sandor had taught her. Gasping, Sansa wrenched it free and then man fell gurgling at her feet.

Sandor turned and scowled at the man writhing on the ground. “Mercy, ser.”

“Mercy?” Sandor spat out. “Bugger that. Do I look like your mother?”

Returning to Sansa’s side, he murmured, “You killed him, little bird, but that cut will take a while to bleed out. Give him the gift of mercy. You remember where the heart is?”

She stared into his eyes. “Yes, Sandor.”

“Good,” His face once again twisted into a frightening sneer. “Finish him.”

Sansa uncertainly glanced between Sandor and the Baratheon soldier.

“Mercy, my lady,” he whispered, blood frothing from his lips. “Mercy.”

Frowning, Ned stepped forward and wordlessly slipped Ice in between the man’s ribs. Turning sharply toward Sandor, he shouted, “Sansa did what she had to, but you should not expect her to kill at will. She is a Clegane in law, not in blood.”

Snorting, Sandor let out a derisive laugh and shook his head. “That about sums you up, Stark-all high and mighty with your duty and honor. Bugger that. So, it’s well enough for Sansa to defend herself but not finish what she started even if it means lessening the suffering of another; is that the way of it?”

One of the wounded Baratheon men lunged forward, and Shae hastily drew her blade across his throat and then shoved him away from her. “Enough of this!” She moved beside Sansa. “What is with you men? Have you gone mad? This is not the time for such childishness!”

“Yes, stop it, please, the both of you,” Sansa hissed, wiping the blood from her blade with shaking hands. “Shae is right. Let us make haste.”

Arms folded, Shae glared at the sheepish men before following Sansa and Ser Barristan inside the stables. In the stall furthest from the door, Stranger trumpeted at the sight of his master, the ferocious warhorse snorting and rearing wildly against his restraints.

“Sandor, his feathers are bloodied,” Sansa softly called to him. “Easy, Stranger,” she whispered to the warhorse before gingerly offering him a dried apple.

When Stranger calmed, Sandor knelt to inspect him. “This doesn’t appear to be his blood, lass.” Confused, he searched the stall for clues. “Where did it come from?”

“Over here,” Ser Barristan called out, pointing to two battered bodies lying on the ground, the figures obscured by bales of hay. “You trained him well, Clegane. Your warhorse trampled these men to death; not much left of them at that. Looks like they tried to bridle him.”

“Good boy,” Sandor rasped, rubbing the heavy courser’s nose as he eased his saddle onto his back. “Easy fellow, we’re getting out of here once you let me saddle you.”

Sansa hastened over to Sugar, her blonde Palomino mare. “She seems to be in good condition. Father, help me with her, please.”

Ned easily saddled the gentle horse and helped Sansa into the stirrups. Ser Barristan led his own two heavy coursers out of their stalls and handed the reins of the buckskin to Ned. “He’s fast and sure of foot, my lord. He is yours.”

“Thank you, Ser Barristan,” Ned dipped his head.

“Sansa, I do not want you riding on your own. You will be in front of me, lass,” Sandor lifted her off of Sugar and handed her reins to Shae. “Go on, you take her.”

“But Sandor-“

“I won’t risk you getting separated from us,” he stroked her cheek. “I need you beside me.”

“But what if you needs fight?” Ned protested. “Clegane, use your head; you may accidentally hurt her. Sansa should stay on her own mount or else ride behind you.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve fought on horseback before, Stark!” Sandor snarled back. “I’d fight the Warrior himself before I would risk her safety but I am not putting her behind me during a bloody battle, understand?”

“Please, can you both stop this bickering?” The young woman angrily turned to them. “We are stronger together and we must stay unified if we are to survive.” Everyone stared at her sudden outburst. More quietly, Sansa added, “Please, you must trust me. I have seen it in my dreams.”

Sighing, Ned nodded. “Sansa is right, Clegane. Whether you believe it or not, the old gods will deliver us but only if we follow the dreams they have shown to her. Go along with it for her sake if not your own.”

Sandor grunted in agreement when suddenly the sound of a large group of soldiers approaching the stables silenced the group. “Fuck, we’re trapped in here, the bloody bastards,” Sandor spit on the ground. “We’ll have to fight through them.”

“We can try to break through the other side of the enclosure,” Ser Barristan offered. “There are loose boards.”

“No,” Sandor shook his head. “It would take too long with no guarantee we would get through. We’ll charge the soldiers; they won’t expect it.” He turned to Ned. “What say you, Lord Eddard?”

Sansa turned to her father, who rubbed his beard in thought. “Aye it’s the only way,” Ned agreed. “We have the element of surprise on our side. Sansa can hide in here until the fight is over. Ser Barristan, you and Shae ride out first and with any luck the soldiers will give chase; that will lessen the number of men we need fight.”

The very thought of being left behind frightened her to the core, but Sansa knew they were right; if her husband and father failed, she could return to the Red Keep and no one would be the wiser. They would not fail, she repeated in her head, unwilling even in their dire situation to entertain the thought, for the gods had shown her they would escape. Anxiously Sansa silently prayed for strength as she glanced at Shae, who smiled reassuringly at her.

“It will be alright, Sansa; have faith in your gods. They have always helped you.”

The old knight nodded curtly at her then. Shae turned Sugar around to follow him, putting her heels to the mare’s flank. Outside the sound of men shouting, steel clashing and Shae shouting curses in Lorathi rang out in the night. Thundering hooves against the wet cobblestone streets told them that some of the soldiers were following them away from the stables.

“Sansa, you stay hidden inside, understand?” Sandor ordered, silencing her protests with a hard kiss on the mouth. Reluctantly he pulled away. “I’ll come for you when this is over.” His breath came in short gasps, his eyes wild with fear and anger. “Wait for me, no matter what happens. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Sansa whispered, tenderly kissing him.  Hurriedly she turned to her father and kissed him as well, then huddled down among the haystacks and cast a final look at her husband. Unable to bear watching the two men she loved rideinto battle, Sansa squeezed her eyes closed as Sandor raised both swords over his head and charged out of the stables.


	20. The Escape Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second to the last chapter. If my readers like the idea, I may continue it in a sequel, so please, let me know your thoughts. Thank you :D

Crouched in the dusty chaff, Sansa squeezed her knees to her chest and breathlessly waited for the unmistakable sound of combat. Fear burned hot in her stomach, sending bitter bile into her throat. Laboring to still her nerves, Sansa swallowed hard and fervently prayed to the old gods for the safety of her family. 

Not long after her arrival in King’s Landing, Sansa carefully crafted her own battle with the Lannisters, landing blows using well-chosen words and empty courtesies. As for Sandor, his time in the Red Keep honed him into one of the most efficient killers in the Seven kingdoms. Each had served them well both individually and as married couple but Sandor’s method terrified her more than anything she had ever known. The young woman feared that at any moment the Stranger would tear her husband away from her, leaving her a widow.

Freedom would be hard won for them, Sansa had always understood this, but watching her husband and father bloody themselves was a startling revelation, a gory and unique instruction all its own. Though she had seen death before, Sansa was not prepared for the sheer volume of the bloodshed her family wrought, the screaming of the men as sharp steel met flesh and bone, the metallic aroma of blood, and the moans of the dying. Certainly she was not prepared to take life, though she managed to do that fairly efficiently as well. Most of all, though, Sansa was not prepared for the return of the Hound.

She watched Sandor’s eyes transform, his appearance taking on one of a wild and frightening beast, half demon, half human as they advanced out of the castle. With his armor and blade drenched in blood; Sandor resembled the Warrior himself, and it was clear to her he had tested the limits of his courage and battle prowess.

Sandor fought as a member of the Stark family now, but that did little to lessen the horror of his actions. Wearing a wicked grin, she watched her as he cut down their enemieswith morbid awe, his deadly efficiency leaving a fine spray of blood trailing the wake of his blade.

As he and her father waged battle outside, Sansa could not help but wonder if the man who was her beloved husband, so deeply buried within the persona of the Hound, would be able to find his way back to her once they were out of King’s Landing. As the minutes slowly inched by, Sansa found this very real prospect terrified her far more than the wildfire, the Baratheon soldiers or the Lannister men currently outside the stables.

After the initial shouting and clashing of steel, all fell eerily silent in the courtyard. Bewildered, Sansa peered around the bales of hay toward the stable doors. There stood Osmund Kettleback with his hand resting on his sword, quietly speaking to her father and Sandor. His brother Osney stood nearby flanked by five soldiers.

The green glow of wildfire disconcertingly illuminated the bleak scene surrounding them; upon closer inspection Sansa saw the ground at the men’s feet was littered with the dead and dying. Sansa’s stomach churned,  the startling sight sending a sharp involuntary shiver throughout her body. _Why would Cersei’s men leave the castle when Stannis’ forces have breached the Red Keep? Sandor and Father’s voices sound calm; perhaps it would be safe to come out._ Sansa strained her ears to decipher their words but she could not over the sounds of battle in the castle. After a quick prayer, she decided it would be best to remain hidden.

“Lord Clegane, I see you are still determined to keep your word to the king.” Osmund unceremoniously  kicked a Baratheon soldier who lay moaning at Sandor’s feet.

“I’m his dog, aren’t I?” Sandor spat out, sinking his blade into the man’s chest.

Sansa found herself nodding, satisfied with her husband’s actions. _Sandor would not torment him. I doubt Osmund even comprehends that he is giving him the gift of mercy._

When finished, Sandor growled, “What in Seven hells are you doing out here with the castle under attack?”

“Stannis is retreating from the Mud Gate as we speak,” Osmund smirked. “Tywin ignored King Joffrey’s command to rendezvous with you at Greywater Watch. Instead he joined Loras Tyrell’s men and routed the Baratheon troops that made it ashore.”

“Aye, good on him,” Sandor replied, his voice hoarse will effort. “No one can outwit the old lion.”

“What of the queen and the women?” Ned asked quietly. Sansa noticed he stared at Sandor when he made his inquiry.

“They are safe inside Maegor’s, my lord, so you need not fret for your daughter’s wellbeing. Joffrey and the queen would not let any harm come to her in spite of everything, I can assure you. I was sent to tell you that Lady Clegane is waiting for you with the queen in the throne room.”

“Is she now?” Sandor sneered darkly, creeping closer to the man. The ominous sound in his voice sent a corresponding shudder down Sansa’s spine. Unnerved, she hugged herself tighter.

“Come, Clegane,” Osmund gestured impatiently. “Fetch your wife and be on your way.”

“I don’t need her anymore now that I’ve got her old man.” Sandor jerked his head at Ned.

“She’s a sweet little thing,” Osney licked his lips.

“That she is,” Sandor agreed, his voice taut and menacing despite his effort to look calm.

Osmund nodded as he cast a lascivious smirk at Ned.“Poor lass, she doesn’t know you mean to throw her over.”

“The road gets lonely, Clegane,” Osney went on. “You may regret not taking her with you.”

 _They don’t know the danger they are in,_ Sansa shivered once more, watching uneasily as her husband continued to step forward, his innocuous movement barely discernable even to her. Her father did not miss it, however, and used the men’s distraction to move beside Sandor.

“As long as I’ve got coin, my bed will stay warm,” Sandor roared out a harsh and frightening laugh devoid of humor. “No, I had my taste. Highborns are far more trouble than sporting women and not as _knowledgeabl_ e, either.”

The men all laughed. Sansa noticed Sandor continued closing the distance between him and Osney, who seemed oblivious to the threat Sandor presented to them.

Osmund’s mouth pulled tight; it was clear to Sansa that he was not as relaxed as his brother. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Clegane, you played the devoted husband very effectively. I still say you’ll miss her.”

“If you care about her so much, why didn’t you bring her to me?”The two men studied each other a moment before Sandor moved directly in front of him. “Who sent you?”

“It was Lord Baelish, wasn’t it?” Ned shouted angrily. “He sent you out here to intercept us, didn’t he? I dare you to deny it!”

Osney and Osmund exchanged a quick glance before drawing their swords.

Sansa squeezed her eyes closed against the sounds of the ensuing battle. _Remember what the old gods revealed in the dream,_ Sansa whispered to herself like a prayer. She heard Sandor cursing, slashing his sword with such force that the blade cut through the air with a violent hiss. After what felt like an eternity, she peeked through her fingers to see the ground littered with broken bodies and pools of blood, her father and husband the last men standing.

Though they were no longer in danger, Sansa could not bring herself to come out of hiding. Unable to move or speak, she watched them move into the stables.

“Little bird,” Sandor rasped softly. “You can come out now, sweet. I’ll not hurt you; you know that.”

Covered in blood as they were, they made a frightening picture. Overwhelmed from the events of the entire night, Sansa felt as though her legs would not carry her to them.

“Lemoncake, it’s safe,” Sansa heard her father’s voice, calm and even, soothing just as it was when she was a little girl and frightened from a nightmare. Their eyes met. “Come on out now. You need not be afraid, lass.”

Ned gestured toward Sandor, who mopped his face, knelt down and held out his hand to her. “Little bird, you’re safe now.”

With no further hesitation, Sansa ran toward them. “Sandor! Father!”

Strong arms surrounded her, pulling her close as she sobbed out her relief. “Shhh now, you’re alright now, Little bird.”  Her husband buried his face in her hair, his chest expanding against her cheek as he drew in a deep sigh. “We’re leaving this shit hole once and for all.”

Turning, Sansa disentangled herself from his arms and leapt into her father’s waiting embrace. “Father, we are going home at long last! The gods have answered our prayers-it is just as it was in the dream!”

“Aye that we are,” Ned stroked her hair just as he did when she was little. “What else did they show you, child?”

“That we would fight our way out but we would escape.”

Sandor snorted but said nothing, his eyes darting toward the stable door where Ser Barristan and Shae warily poked their head inside. “Is all well, my lords?”

“Yes, Ser Barristan,” Ned confirmed, settling Sansa on her feet. “Let us mount the horses. I’m ready to leave this place once and for all.”

Nodding, Sansa allowed Sandor to help her situate herself in front of him on Stranger. “Father, where will we go from here?”

“Why are you asking him?” Sandor snarled, gripping her chin.

Ser Barristan and Ned looked at each other, both men unsure how to react to his sudden outburst of anger. Ser Barristan stepped forward until Shae placed her hand lightly on his elbow and shook her head, nodding toward Sansa with a knowing look.

“Leave him to her, my lords, I beg you.”

The three watched Sansa turn to face him and gently cup his cheeks in her hands. “Do not growl at me so, Sandor, not after all we have just been through. I cannot bear it.”

Gritting his teeth, Sandor stared levelly at her, the man visibly struggling to control himself. “Answer me, wife,” he rasped, his voice somewhat quieter. “I am the one who arranged this escape, gods be damned. I am the one who fooled Joff and Cersei and braved wildfire for you; and yet you still turn to him. Bugger that.”

“Forgive me; it is a force of habit. I did not mean to slight you, husband.” To Ned and Ser Barristan’s surprise, she leaned up and kissed the ferocious Hound softly on the mouth. “You have suffered greatly for our freedom, my love, and I am deeply grateful to you.”

Grunting, he lowered his eyes, traced her cheek with the back of his index finger and slowly nodded. “Trust me, do you?”

“You know I do.”

“Good lass,” Sandor kissed her soundly. “Get on your horses. We need to move,” he finally barked at those watching the exchange. “Hurry now.”

Shae grinned at Sansa, who smiled softly at her in return, the women sharing a curious, unspoken communication.

Sansa patted his hand. “I am ready. Will we stay on the Kingsroad, Sandor?”

“No, wife,” Sandor shook his head. “We make for the coast above the Blackwater.”

“Is that wise?” Ser Barristan glanced over at Ned with a worried frown as Sandor glared at them. “Does that suit you, my lord?”

“Yes, Ser Barristan,” Ned answered decidedly. “We will follow my goodson’s lead.”


	21. Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is the end! Thanks to everyone for your comments, concrit and enthusiasm; it made this story so much fun to write. I've decided to write a sequel to this and should start posting it at the beginning of the year. There are a few hints as to where this story will go in this final chapter, so let's see if you pick up on it!

Sandor led the group through Flea Bottom, which surprisingly was mostly empty, its inhabitants either in hiding or having abandoned their homes prior to the battle. Ser Barristan and her father rode pointe. Shae rode beside them, keeping her eyes fixed on their surroundings while clutching her dagger close to her breast.

Despite no visual signs of danger, Sandor’s body remained as tense as a bowstring, his sword drawn and ready for action. Sansa felt his shield arm periodically tighten around her waist protectively, pulling her gently against his chest. Leaning into him, she whispered low, “We will make it out safe, husband. I know you have no faith in the gods but you will see.”

He stiffened a moment but said nothing. 

Sansa patted his arm lightly. “Trust me, do you?”

The burned side of his mouth twitched into a small grin, the man amused at hearing her repeat his words to him. “Aye lass.”

“Good man,” she teased mildly, earning a low chuckle from her husband.

Ahead of them she noticed Ser Barristan and her father in deep conversation, but Sansa could not hear what they were saying.

“Try to get some rest, little bird,” Sandor whispered in her ear. Dutifully she closed her eyes, though she did not expect sleep to come to her.

* * *

“My Lord, forgive me, but are you certain this is wise?” Ser Barristan muttered low, resting his hand on Lord Eddard’s shoulder. “Clegane means well, but we needs rendezvous with your son’s bannermen as soon as may be.”

Ned gripped his arm reassuringly. “Sandor means to take Sansa out of harm’s way; we have already discussed his plan. He’s chartered a vessel headed for White Harbor. Once we see them off, he is leaving us on our own.”

“He’s taking her to White Harbor,” Ser Barristan raised his brow. “Lady Sansa agreed to this?”

“No,” Ned sighed. “She does not know, and I have commanded my goodson not to tell her until it is time to board the ship. It breaks my heart to hear her tell me that we will be able to go home, poor lass.”

“What news of Winterfell?”

“Theon Greyjoy holds Winterfell, so they cannot go there and neither can I without an army. I have ordered Clegane to keep her hidden until the war is over. I cannot bear to lose any more children, Ser Barristan, I just cannot. I must find Arya, Bran and Rickon, and somehow find a way to get Robb to see sense in this war.”

“Lady Sansa knows about Theon, but that does not prevent her from holding on to hope. She’s a lot like you, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Barristan’s mouth curled into a small smile. 

“Aye, she has the look of her mother but in many ways she and I think alike. She’ll understand this is the only way to proceed, though she may not like it at first.” Ned shook his head, despite his pleased expression. “Robb cannot hope that the Seven kingdoms will submit to his rulership; I must make him accept that. Someone would always rise up to challenge his claim. Daenerys Targaryen will return to Westeros one day soon, and if the rumors are to be believed, she will bring dragons with her-fire and blood. She has enough reason to dislike me; I don’t want Robb giving her another by claiming right to the Iron throne.”

Ser Barristan scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “Aye, the Spider has it on good authority, my lord, that she is on her way to reclaim it as we speak.”

“I know,” Ned sighed wearily. “When I return to the family, Robb will defer to me; he is dutiful and knows his place. I have no desire to play the game of thrones any longer, and I will not seek kingship of the north. As of now, Stannis is the rightful heir to the Iron throne. I intend on treating with him; we have known each other for some time and hopefully he will accept our surrender and allow us to return home in peace. It is the only logical course of action.”

“What of the Targaryen girl’s claim?”

“Once I am reunited with my family, I am sending you to find her. Perhaps she will listen to reason where her father and brother would not and find a way to resolve this issue with minimal bloodshed.”

“Imagine how different our lives would have been if just one king we served did such a thing?” the old knight shrugged. “Perhaps a queen is just what the seven kingdoms need. You know what they say about the Targaryens, though, the whole lot of them have always danced too close to madness. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

“As we do now,” Ned finished. “She is said to have a gentle heart.”

“Then she is no Targaryen,” Ser Barristan commented darkly. “Plain and simple.”

Shrugging, Ned stared out into the night. “A true Targaryen is capable of both ferocity and tenderness, though in my experience, not in equal measure.”

Sandor gestured toward them and the two men fell silent as they moved to his side.

* * *

 

Positioning Stranger beside them, Sandor rasped, “The Iron Gate is just ahead. Ready yourselves.”

After exchanging glances, Ser Barristan and Ned nodded.

“Little bird; come on, wake up lass,” he whispered into her ear. “I needs move you in case I need to fight. Come on, wife.”  With a gentleness that belied his fearsome appearance, Sandor settled her behind him. “Hold onto my waist as tight as you can. I’m going to keep you hidden under my cloak.”

Meekly Sansa agreed, lifting his cloak over her and grasping him tightly.

Ned leaned over to Ser Barristan. “Does Janos Slynt still command this gate?”

“No, Lord Tyrion exiled him to the Wall right after the king stripped me of my position with the Kingsguard. He figured if Slynt would betray you and work with Baelish, then no one was safe with him around.”

“Quite right,” Ned agreed.

“I mean to kill the bastard for betraying you, he and Baelish both,” Sandor snarled low, drawing his blade. “I’ll get my chance one day, believe that.”

“Take care of my daughter, Sandor,” Ned nodded at him. “That is enough for me.”

Upon approaching the Iron Gate, the men saw only a small contingency of gold cloaks standing guard, drinking away their fear. 

“Open the bloody gate,” Sandor growled out. “We haven’t got all night.”

“Who goes there?” A voice called down from the barbican. “That you, Hound?”

“Aye, it is. Know anyone else who wears this helm, you buggering bastard?!”

“No, and no one with so sharp a tongue, Hound,” one of the men chuckled nervously.

“If I were my brother, I would slaughter the lot of you just for annoying me.”

At the mere mention of Gregor, the men became visibly uneasy. One man finally asked, “Where are you going?”

“To secure the Neck,” Sandor shouted back, his voice strained with the effort of controlling his temper. “Quit buggering around and open up.”

The leering gaze of the men weighed heavily on Shae, though Sansa took notice that she hardly seemed affected by it.

“Sandor, please, no matter her past, you must not allow them-“

“Shh, I won’t,” he rasped quietly. “Be still for me now.”

The nearest man gestured toward Shae. “That your whore, Barristan?”

“No, she’s Lady Clegane’s handmaiden. Enough talk. Do as you’re bid or I’ll cut through all of you myself.”

When the men paused, Sandor shouted, “Open the portcullis, gods be damned, now! I won’t tell you again!”

Sansa quietly whispered her prayers against the cold metal of Sandor’s armor. After some quiet discussion among the gold cloaks, the grinding gate creaked open for them.

“Many thanks,” Sandor raised his hand in an obscene gesture to them as they rode through.  Sansa gasped nervously and glanced at her father, who merely smiled reassuringly and took his position beside her. To her surprise, the gold cloaks did not seem offended, for his action brought an eruption of anxious laughter among the soldiers, the sound echoing loudly against the massive walls of the gate.

With that final obstacle overcome, the group fled King’s Landing with no resistance and headed north, just as Sansa dreamed they would.

They rode day and night for three nights, only stopping briefly to take care of necessities and eat. Ned instructed them to remain silent as they rode, and even when they stopped to eat,they merely whispered the barest of conversation.

“How long will it take Joffrey to realize we are not obeying him?” Sansa whispered to her father one night as they mounted their horses.

“It will take at least two moons,” he answered. “Possibly three, as arrogant as he is; no doubt the king will be gloating over his victory for a while yet.”

“More like Lord Tywin will notice first,” Ser Barristan added. “Not much slips past that one.”

“Even if Tywin doesn’t, Baelish will see to it that it is brought to his attention; the damned mockingbird never misses his chance to sing into the ear of the lions,” Sandor agreed. “I should have gutted him when I had the chance, damn me. I regret letting that one live-we may _all_ very well live to regret it.”

A sudden chill swept over her in the form of a deep abiding fear, leading Sansa to seek the warmth of Sandor’s skin against her own. Burrowing her face in his neck, Sansa whispered, “I fear it, too, husband, but you could not risk killing him at the time. Whatever the consequences, it was for the best. If the gods see fit, you will get your opportunity.”

“Or else someone else will kill him,” Shae offered. “He has many enemies, and in his line of work, he deals with many dangerous people.”

“The Stranger comes for all of us, my lady,” Ser Barristan shrugged. “Over the years, I’ve seen many a man die in battle. Just as often, though, I’ve seen men like him die of the ague, trip over a cat and break their neck, or live well into old age and die in their sleep. He’ll get what the gods have coming for him, don’t fret on that. None of us can escape it.”

“Bugger that,” Sandor snarled, pulling Sansa closer to him. “I don’t plan on waiting for him to get killed because of some damned cat. I want to see Baelish squirm; I want to look into his weasel face when I put the steel to him.”

“I overheard Lord Varys say that Lord Baelish was ordered to Harrenhal to meet with your brother,” Sansa whispered with a shiver. Since the day of the tourney of the Hand, she avoided using Gregor Clegane’s name; the young woman reasoning a man who would treat his own brother (and her husband, no less) so cruelly did not deserve to have his name spoken on her lips. “I fear those men working together. Only the greatest of suffering will result in it, of that I am certain, Sandor.”

“Gregor? Work with Littlefucker?” Sandor laughed long and hard. “He’ll skin that runt the first chance he gets, believe that, wife.”

Her brows knit together anxiously but Sansa remained quiet and buried herself further in his arms.

“Never mind that now,” Ned frowned, the man clearly put off by the morbidity of the conversation. “You men are upsetting my daughter with this bleak discussion. We must make haste if we are to reach our destination in time.”

“Sandor, where are we going?” Sansa asked quietly as they traveled closer to the coast, the tall white sails of the ships dotting the pink dawn sky.

“You, Shae and I are boarding a ship for White Harbor,” Sandor rasped softly in her ear. 

Turning sharply, she looked up at him questioningly. “What of Father and Ser Barristan?”

Groaning, Sandor’s eyes shifted uneasily toward Ned. “They are headed another way, wife.”

“What? Where are they going? Please, tell me at once!” Sansa demanded, her voice rising in panic.

“Sansa child, please,” Shae chastened her. “You must trust your father and husband know what is best.”

“Does everyone know but me?” Sansa impatiently hissed, and then suddenly jumped from the saddle.

“Sansa! Bloody hells; get back over here this instant!” Sandor growled, following after her on foot.

“No, not until you tell me what is going on!” Sansa hurried away from him, calling out, “Father! Father please tell me where you are going!”

Sighing, Ned swung down off his horse. “Sansa, stop this at once.”

“Father, I must know-I cannot bear the way you men always keep me in the dark! Why do you not trust me? I am no longer a child!”

“Forgive me, but I insisted Sandor not tell you so as not to upset you,” Ned glanced up at Sandor. “I can see that was a mistake.”

Tears welled in Sansa’s eyes. “Why are you not coming with us?”

“I needs find your sister and brothers, lass, and speak to Robb about the war. Ser Barristan and I will make for the Riverlands, as your Mother and brother are said to be there. Sandor will keep you and Shae in hiding until the war is over.” When Sansa started to protest, Ned gently placed his finger over her lips. “Listen to me, child; winter is coming for us all. Promise me you will stay with Sandor and follow his lead, not because he is your husband, but because his battle experience will serve you well during the troubled times ahead.”

Sighing deeply, Sansa took his hands in her own. “I will do as you ask, Father, I swear it on the old gods and the new.” 

Turning to Sandor, she reached up and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Sandor, more than I ever thought possible.” He looked away, a small smile twitching on his mouth. “Look at me,” she lifted his chin to meet her gaze. “I trust you will take care of me just as you always have but that is not why I will go with you, you must believe that. I will go with you, not only because Father asks it of me, but because you are my beloved husband and I do not wish to ever be parted from you.”

He brought his hand up to her face and slowly caressed her chin. “As I love you, lass. Trust me, do you?”

“I do, my love.”

“Then say goodbye to your father so we can make the ship.”

“Sansa, you must follow your dreams, child, it is the way the old gods speak to you. Never doubt their guidance.”

“I will do as you say, Father. I love you so very much,” Sansa kissed him on both cheeks. “We will be together soon.”

After a long, tearful goodbye with her Father, Sansa followed Sandor and Shae aboard the _Storm Dancer_. Ned waved to her from the shore until the ship left dock, praying to the old gods that one day soon the Starks would be reunited as a family in Winterfell.

The End  



	22. Thank you to all my readers-this is awesome!!!

I just wanted to share this with my readers!

Dear Littlefeather,

CONGRATULATIONS! [The Fanatic Fanfics Multifandom Awards](http://fanaticfanficsawards.blogspot.com/p/2014-nominations-by-nominees.html) would like to inform you that you have been nominated in the following categories:

All-Time Favorite Game of Thrones Fanfic for The Long Journey Home  
All-Time Favorite Game of Thrones Fanfic for Wild At Heart

Voting page will open to voters on March 31st, 2014. We will take votes for two weeks before closing the page on April 14th, 2014.

Feel free to let your readers know about this event and may the odds be ever in your favor.

-Fanatic Fanfics Multifandom Awards  
fanaticfanficsawards. blogspot. com

I'm truly grateful to everyone who has read and enjoyed this fic, and I never dreamed it would be nominated for anything! Thank you so much for this, it made my day! *group hugs*


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